


We're Still Underground (Fixed at Zero)

by Dreamehz



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Agnes Nutter is a Nuisance From Beyond the Grave, Agnes Nutter's Prophecies, Angel Hierarchy, Angel Wings, Angel and Demon True Forms (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley Friendship (Good Omens), Aziraphale Can Sense Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Families of Choice, Former Cherub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Heaven is a cult, I want that to become an official tag so badly., Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Multi, Other, Past Sexual Assault, Past Torture, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), Trauma, Wing Grooming, moron4moron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27622223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamehz/pseuds/Dreamehz
Summary: There was a bit more behind the body swap than simply switching places. Crowley's curse couldn't show on Aziraphale's person, after all. Aziraphale with snake eyes or sunglasses and a snake tattoo would've been more than a little suspicious.They come up with a way to overcome that hurdle, but it's a bit more intimate than either were expecting, and it's a miracle it doesn't backfire on them. Demons are weak to Holy, after all, and what's Holier than pure, unadulterated Angel?But it works out. And they come out the other side no worse for wear. But with Aziraphale no longer following Heaven's orders, he has the freedom of deep introspection for what feels like the first time since The War 6000 years ago. And he makes the most out of it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 57





	1. Preparing for Thinking Time

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from [We're Still Underground by Eve](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=nBteO-bU78Y) (there's a really good [English cover by Trickle](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=u5a5LC038c0)), and [Fixed at Zero by VersaEmerge.](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=G84xJz4wMEc)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is anxious and Aziraphale is enigmatic. Nothing could go wrong, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Crowley suffers from anxiety.

**A.Z. Fell & Co. Backroom  
** **A week or so after the Nahpocalypse** **** ****  
 **Crowley**

It’s not completely farfetched to describe it all as if Aziraphale giving humans his flaming sword had been akin to planting the first seed of Crowley's feelings. Within that metaphor, the sheltering from the first rain would be the first watering, because naturally. It has been nurtured and has grown, a little at a time, and not always gently, over the course of millennia. It first poked itself tenuously above the soil not long after, during the first blizzard where Aziraphale had invited a wretched and bone-chilled Crawly into shelter with its warmth and company. The first blooms were weak and sickly, too scared of attracting attention, probably even from himself. Over time it adjusted to its existence, settled in its reality, and gave its first proper bloom under the world’s first rainbow. After the first bloom, all hesitation was gone and bloom after bloom came to be. The first fruit was developed in Rome, just by the way.

Now, in the not-quite-end times, it has become an orchard. Or a garden. Crowley's not entirely sure what flora exists within this metaphor. Maybe it’s an apple tree, you know, for the Aesthetic.

The point is that it's currently in danger of plague. Not the feelings, he's mixing metaphors here, but the ability to spend time with the subject of those feelings. The world ending has ended. Both of them have been abandoned by their respective sides. Rather actively and aggressively. No more Arrangement then; it's not needed anymore. They're not on either side now, only their own: humanity. Will their friendship survive without the Arrangement? Will Aziraphale have any interest in maintaining it?

Crowley knows the answer is almost certainly yes. It’s practical, for one thing. A new kind of Arrangement ought to take its place: Phase Three as it were. The two of them will be stronger together than if they kept separate.

But there’s also the fact that for some reason Aziraphale has always seemed to genuinely enjoy his company (they've been dining and talking to each other for millennia after all, long before the Arrangement was properly set up), but that’s not enough for the thoughts to leave him be. What if he resents Crowley for how things wound up? What if, now that he's free of Heaven, he'll want nothing to do with Crowley? What if, without the Arrangement or the Apocanope, he decides Crowley is no longer welcome in his life outside of said practical reasons?

His entire Purpose has been revoked after all. Reworked. He’s no longer beholden to Heaven or its Duties. He’s free. No pressure or Work. And unlike when that happened to Crowley, he wasn’t instead beholden to Hell. He was only beholden to himself now. And that kind of massive change can invoke deep introspection. What if he decides—

It makes more sense for them to keep in contact. Otherwise, should Heaven or Hell go after them again they’d be alone, but it doesn’t prevent those hateful thoughts from plaguing him. Crowley _knows_ these worries are baseless… or at least he desperately hopes they are. And that’s the rub. Anxiety doesn’t care about logic.

And the longer he has to think about it, the less certain he is that Aziraphale does enjoy his company. Maybe it was a rebellion for rebellion's sake. A good old fuck you to Heaven. And nothing more. That would make sense of his angel's constant denials of their friendship. Or… any number of other reasons.

The world may not have ended, but it's still possible that Crowley's might. It won’t, logically he knows it’s nothing, but the thoughts won’t leave him regardless. It’s a thread of tension wrapped around him waiting for the shoe to drop which will cause the attached threads to dig into him.

And then Aziraphale cuts one of the threads.

It’s not as bad as he imagined it happening. In fact, it shakes out rather well all things considered. It still leaves Crowley in a limbo of ‘What if he decides—’, but at least the initial uncertainty is resolved. That's always the worst part.

It comes after a cup or so of wine in the privacy of the bookshop. Not so much that they’re sloshed, but they’re definitely both looser than normal. They've been spending every day in the other's company since the not-pocalypse, the week or so it's been since then. A dinner there, a pop back home, some wine there, lounging around the bookshop now that they don't have to be overtly secretive anymore, hoping Aziraphale won't chase him out (he hasn't yet, though he has given Crowley looks and aborted attempts to say something that seemed to have that air about them).

This just happened to be the day he finally says it: “Well. I’ve been thinking… that I think I need a little time to myself to think.”

“Angel, what are you talking about?” Crowley's pretty sure he has an idea, but he wants the clarity. It'll help him cope (maybe).

“Well, I mean, it’s just that the world nearly ended and life as I knew it has been quite thrown into the unknown, and I was thinking a bit of thinking time might sort me straight. But spending time with you is far too appealing, so I’ve rather been putting it off.” He then smiles at Crowley with that soft 'look what you do to me' look that Crowley usually revels in because it means he's caused the angel to do something out of his comfort zone. Right now it serves to entirely disarm Crowley of every brain cell left in his head.

It's not really until later that his anxiety kicks back up and wonders if being a distraction will net him negative points in Aziraphale's Thinking Time.

"So how long were you thinking… to think for? A week of brooding? A month? A couple years of angsting." His mouth hisses the 'sting' in the last word. He hopes he's not being too obvious.

"I do not brood." He pouts like Crowley knew he would. "And I wasn't thinking anywhere near so long. Just a couple of days with the intent of sorting myself out and preparing myself for the future—mentally speaking of course, though we probably ought to do that literally as well now that I think about it—and lookie there. Thinking Time is already going so well."

"Well wontcha look at that." He says in lieu of having to say literally anything else. What _is_ he supposed to say here? 'Don't come out of it deciding you want nothing to do with me?' Yeah, that would go over well.

Before Crowley can say anything else Aziraphale says, "I was thinking we could reconvene this Friday? Maybe at the park, feed the ducks for a bit?”

“Uh, yeah, sure." He manages. Okay. Good. At least Aziraphale's not planning on ghosting him or leaving him in complete uncertainty. Then a thought hits him. "Um, should I..?” He glances at the door that leads to the bookshop which leads to the exit.

“What?” Aziraphale mumbles with an expression like that of a confused bird. Then he shakes his head of it and says, “Oh, no no. You can stay for a bit longer if you’d like.” Then he smiles widely and hides it behind another sip.

“Right.” Crowley says, because what else could he say. "Well. Now that that's sorted—"

He goes into some diatribe to distract himself, he can't remember what[1], drinking far more wine than he'd planned to before that whole thing came up.

**The next morning**

He wakes up from an alcohol-induced nap, alone on Aziraphale's sofa. Aziraphale's not in that room, but is out in the bookshop itself, tidying with that small smile gracing his lips. Crowley watches from the doorframe for a bit before grimacing at the—oh, nevermind, Aziraphale must've taken care of the hangover for him.

"Good morning." His angel greets him cheerily. "Nice nap?"

"Mmm." He hums noncommittally.

"You've been doing that a lot the past few days. You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." And then he realizes exactly how he's going to wile away the time until Friday. "Probably could do with some proper sleep though—you're not the only one who could do with some alone time." Nevermind he's been the one to take short breaks to take care of his plants and spending every excuse he can think of to spend another moment with his angel. Pedantry is Aziraphale's thing. "Think I'll take this opportunity for some shut eye"

"Oh." Aziraphale sounds surprised, and slightly disappointed? "In that case, would you like to put off meeting on Friday then? Maybe a few months from now instead?"

"Wha? Nahhhh. Friday's good. Friday's fine. Guess I'll, uh, see you at our usual spot?"

"Of course!" And if there's something tense in Aziraphale's smile Crowley intentionally ignores it. "I'll count the days."

Wow. Way to make it so he doesn't want to leave. Instead he saunters by, intentionally weaving to pass by him on his way out, and gestures to the exit with his hand. "Don't get too excited on me now."

His hand rests in the air for a moment, dramatically, long enough for Aziraphale to raise his own hands to it and bring it between them to clasp it.

And if this smile is absent of tension he dutifully ignores that too.

"I'll be sure not to allow myself to get too all callao." He glances over Crowley's shoulder to the backroom with a cheeky grin on his face.

"What?" He's doing the thing again. He's been doing the thing for centuries but it gets Crowley every time he does it, the bastard. Wasn't that sailor slang for something way back when? Giddy with alcohol? All callao. Wasn't Callo a port somewhere?

Said bastard just smiles cutely at him, then glances down at their hands, then quirks his lips slightly before letting him go.

Bastard.

"Right. I'll just, uh, see myself out." He turns, trying not to appear as off-kilter as he feels, and once at the door looks over his glasses and says, "See you Friday, angel."

"Friday." The angel smiles back, waves his hand a little. He doesn't know if this smile is tense or not.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

[1]It was about porpoise dietary habits—no wait that came about later in the conversation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What started as a cute little fic about Aziraphale, with his head out of his ass now that Heaven and Hell aren't threats in That Way and they can be proper friends, starts courting Crowley because he's come to realize that he can, in fact, sense lots of Love coming from Crowley towards him (but Crowley is oblivious to any and all courting, he's just pining all on his own) became... something else. Some of that is still very much here. There's just... a LOT of plot now. It was cute and fluffy and then I had more Ideas and and they fit so well and so easily that it just... became this.
> 
> So... this fic was partially born from boring work days where I drove myself crazy and had Idea after Idea and browsing through Pinterest to read lots of Tumblr Headcanons. As such, if you've read lots of tumblr post headcanons like I did, you may just recognize quite a few of them. One obvious one is the [Crowley Was Not Raphael Before The Fall](https://thegoodomensdumpster.tumblr.com/post/186123848047/in-this-essay-i-will) tag. Another is the Former Cherub Aziraphale tag (this one more from other fanfics/fancomics than tumblr headcanons, but still). The former for the Theme and the latter morphed into both angst and plot. This chapter also has [Weaponized Pedantry](https://thegoodomensdumpster.tumblr.com/post/190417954327/aziraphale-having-just-listened-to-a-song-which) with the all callao joke. Straight up I was like "Aziraphale feels like making fun of Crowley here like he did with the velocipede... *googles 'historical words for happy'* All callao is sailors' slang and was either a pronunciation joke off alcohol or reference to a port city in Peru Callo you say... or both! Sounds perfect." 'Cept now I'm imagining Aziraphale having been a pirate or captive on a pirate ship around that area and the time that slang was used (whenever that was) so that's a fun mental image.
> 
> I also binged multiple fics early in my stint in this fandom (just before I was convinced to watch the mini-series so Primacy Effect was in effect lol) that stuck with me. Ariane-DeVere's ['Numerically speaking, I've always loved you'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24976855/chapters/60466546), and bookwormgal's ['Branded'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20499851/chapters/48649346) in particular. The Crowley being cursed more than other Demons because of the Eden thing (and one or two other influences that I can't remember which atm, and I'm debating Azirasense—which is a phenomenal word for it by the by) from the former and Essence Intimacy/Soul Sex from the latter.
> 
>  **[TRIGGER-RELATED SPOILERS]** : I was also influenced by Branded's Essence Rape that occurs in the first chapter. That influence, as far as this fic is concerned, is a scene of Past Attempted Rape/Attempted Essence Rape/Attempted Torture. While it doesn't get as far as the bastard intended, the survivor is still traumatized. It is also rather plot-important (and was one of the first Ideas I had for this fic if you discount the Courting idea, and a lot of stuff is built around it. Example: The Holy Water scenes had Other Things going on in the survivor's head regarding the potential toxicity of Angel and Demon essences with one another. Next chapter gets into that a bit more with the Switch and half of how that scene shook out in this verse. I wanted at least one blunt warning early on for anyone who needs it. I will tag specific chapters where it's brought up as well, but it will also be a while before it is, and because it's not the main/only focus, I wanted to have a section that brings up the trigger warning bluntly. While not commonplace in this fic, there will likely also be Graphic Depictions of Violence at times. **[END TRIGGER-RELATED SPOILERS.]**


	2. Worldbuilding? In my bodyswapping?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worldbuilding, body swapping, references to soul sex, and I'm a coward who will use any excuse to not speak middle English when Agnes writes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Soul Sex (not literal, but it's talked about and relevant to what's going on). Potential second-hand embarrassment of the Crowley is an emotional mess variety.

**Crowley's apartment  
** **Just after Armegone (Before their trials)**   
**Crowley**

The two of them are fretting together on Crowley's couch. They've thrown out ideas: some serious, some to ease the tension. They've both quieted by this point, having slowed naturally as Aziraphale became distracted with some line of thought and Crowley watches the crease of his brow.

“I think I have an idea.” Aziraphale says slowly the moment he comes out of his latest consideration.

“Well. I’m open to those. We’re running a bit low on them. And time.”

“You’re… not going to like it.” Aziraphale says quietly, nervously. This couldn’t be good.

“At least it would be something.” He offers, shrugging casually (kinda tiredly). Even if it is a bad idea, maybe they can still incorporate it.

“I’ve been thinking about Agnes’ last prophecy. ‘When all is fated and all is done, you must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough you’ll be playing with fire.’ I believe, well. I believe it’s relevant to this. To _how_ we survive. If you want to kill an angel you'd use hellfire, but hellfire wouldn't harm you. And vice versa: Holy wouldn't harm me."

Crowley considers it for a moment, and how it would apply. “So we swap uglies and… hope they don’t notice?”

“That’s the general idea.” Just as Crowley figured. But...

“Great plan. Would probably work. Few problems.” Crowley grimaces. It’s his… existence that causes the majority of the problems, of course. The curse he’s had since Eden, especially. S’not too hard to hide amongst humans. Sunglasses are a… human-send. Angels would be harder to fool though. In Aziraphale’s body? He never wears glasses darker than clear. It would be too out-of-character. And suspiciously timed.

The energy issues might not be too hard to futz. They wouldn’t have to be perfect imitations; Crowley would just have to lighten up the demonic and Aziraphale would have to darken up his angelic. That much is not too beyond their capabilities. Other angels or demons wouldn’t be able to manage, but they’ve been hanging around the other, pretending to do the other’s Work for so long with the Arrangement, they’ve had some practice. It wouldn't have to be a perfect mimic: a little bit of opposite could even foreshadow their survival and terrify the Beezlebub out of Beezlebub.

His eyes though. Cursed by God Herself, and not in the same way that all Demons were Cursed by Her. Special for having tempted Eve in the Garden. Most Demons can hide their looks if they wish, and Crowley can too… just to a lesser extent than the others. Eyes (contacts don’t work), tattoo (concealer does not conceal that), some scales on his body that he can't cover up with anything that isn't clothing, occasional tonguelapses. Aziraphale would likely be able to mimic it all for his half of the swap, but Crowley wouldn’t be able to return the favour.

And would he be able to last on consecrated ground (after all, what’s more consecrated than Heaven itself?) long enough to pull it off?

Aziraphale hums agreement. He’s not looking at Crowley though. In fact, he’s looking shiftily into the middle-distance of the room with… is that a blush??

“I was considering just that. And I think I have a solution. But…” He trails off and… is his face getting redder?? Crowley waits impatiently, figuratively at the edge of his seat. “Um, well, it's just—I wouldn’t suggest it if the situation weren’t so dire, of course—but we could… leave-a-fragment-of-ourselves-behind.”

It may be said in a rush, and Crowley may need a moment to understand why his angel just… said what he did… but eventually he does get it without having to ask his angel to repeat. He’s not sure what he should do if Aziraphale should say that _again_. Once he’s caught up to why Aziraphale suggested it, even the understanding is not quite enough to quiet the fluttering panic that’s trespassed into his system.

It makes sense. It _does_ make a degree of sense. With a fragment of Crowley left behind in his body it would more easily mimic his signature. And a fragment of Aziraphale left behind in his would more easily mimic his, and feasibly fix the eye situation, and even the consecration problem. It _is_ a genuine solution.

It's just that it's also an incredibly mortifying one.

You see, the two of them are man-shaped beings, with the beings-sans-man being shaped more like a swath of energy. Well, in their most unadulterated state they were just energy. That Essence typically made up what was colloquially known as True Forms.

Angels took to Forms long before The War; Heaven had almost had something bordering on a culture before The War had stifled that sort of creativity entirely. One of the things that had managed to come up during that period of potential and make itself relevant was the concept of Melding, or Touching, or Knowing, or whatever it is you want to call it. Doesn't fully translate. Melding is probably the closest to a literal translation. Basically getting to know someone so intimately you're mingling with their very Soul, with your Soul. Quite intense, or so he's heard.

“I… angel… I suppose that _could_ work…” An old thought hits him as he’s muttering and the excuse is tumbling out of his mouth far too quickly[1], “But you’re an angel. And I’m a demon.” However much Crowley wishes he wasn’t something his angel despised. “Would that even work? I mean. Would it even be safe? For either of us?”

Angels may be weak to Hellfire, but in the general they're obnoxiously resistant to Demonic. Demons, however, got the short end of the stick and find themselves weak to pretty much anything that's Holy. Pretty unfair if you ask him.

But there's the fact that no Angel and Demon have tried it together. No telling what would happen, or if nothing would. Would an Angel's Holy hurt a Demon; would a Demon's Hell-forged nature mimic Hellfire closely enough to hurt an Angel? Would it just… prevent the idea from working for no good reason? Or would nothing happen? It's one of those things no one knows the answer to because it's never had to be tested before.

“I-don’t-know.” Aziraphale rushes, not unlike Crowley’s own stumbling words. Both of them were slightly higher-pitched than normal. “We’d have to…” He swallowed. And in that moment Crowley fears with every fiber of his being what his angel is about to say because he _can’t_ be about to suggest—“Well, I suppose we'd have to test-it-first."

Crowley just about short-circuits[2] as what that might entail crosses his mind. It won’t be a proper Meld, surely, just enough of a taste to… test whether or not this is even a valid solution for them to use.

It makes sense. It _does_ make sense. And it’s not like either of them would abuse or mistreat the other or the other’s trust, of course not. But…

It’s still unbelievably intimate. And awkward. And nerve-wracking.

They’re running low on time and ideas as it is. This is the one most likely to work, if nothing bad happens in the test run. Logic says they should just do it and get it over with. What would be a good human analogy? Having to fake a kiss to save your lives? It’s not exactly like that, but it’s exactly like that. Something intimate you wouldn’t do if it weren’t for the life or death hanging over and under you heads. Though slightly more... more. Kiss with your very souls??? Kisses aren’t as likely to be metaphysically dangerous… Is a sex metaphor relevant? Who aside from exhibitionists and porn stars have sex in public? This analogy broke down faster than Crowley's last brain cell.

All these distractions don’t fully take him away from the reality where Aziraphale is suggesting they try Touching each other’s essences. And if that works they should leave behind a fragment of themselves in the body they’re going to fool Heaven and Hell’s executions with.

It’s a bit much.

Which isn't even to get him started on how little he wants to Show Aziraphale his True Form in any capacity. Certainly not lined up right next to his own. An intact, beautiful Angel Touching or being Touched by the ravaged husk of essence that Demons were left with? He'd almost rather do anything else.

Which isn’t even to get into the fact that Crowley’s been wondering what that[3] would be like for millennia. What is he supposed to do about this? Not take advantage, obviously. But again, it is the best option they have. So they’ll have to go through with it. (Crowley won’t let Aziraphale be Unmade if a bit of awkwardness and his own heartache or self-consciousness are the only things keeping him from that fate.) It’s just…

It’s just: what if Aziraphale finds out? What if he doesn’t know how Crowley feels and, if he learns about it somehow after this, (possibly even through this?!) will he be disgusted? Helping a friend and yourself is one thing. This kind of intimacy, with someone who desires that kind of intimacy, when you don’t return that sentiment at all and wouldn't be doing this if not for the dire circumstances..? He can imagine that might be very different.

He won’t take advantage. Of course he won’t. But he needs Aziraphale to understand that… just in case.

It’s an eternity of fidgeting later, and the moment he starts speaking he feels that his tongue has changed back into snake-tongue[4], but he soldiers on anyways.

“Well. It’s ccertainly a bit… out there. And even if they assumed it of us, the fragmentation is probably beyond their ssmall minds…” He’s rambling. Fuck. He’s rambling. And while a perfectly okay lead-up, this is not what he wants to say. He swallows and works his tongue for a second to give himself a moment. “Look. What I’m trying to sssay, even if… Look. I think it’s a good idea. It makes sense. It’s our best shot. It makes senssse.” Great. Now he’s repeating himself.

Aziraphale’s been looking shyly over at him through his lashes. Crowley manages to pull himself together enough to sit up from his slouch. He then brings his hands together with his forearms resting on his knees to wring them. He says, “Look. What I’m trying to say ith that… I trusst you. It’ll be awkward as Hell—well hopefully not _that_ awkward—but it is our best bet and I know you’ll be careful and I jusst wanted to ssay that you can trusst me to be too.” There. He finally got out what he needed. It’s not too direct, but hopefully enough to get his meaning across.

“Oh, Crowley.” His angel says softly. “I wasn’t worried about that. Of course I trust you.” And **that** rings around his head for a few minutes, few hours. A few days. Whatever. “It’s just that it’s…”

He trails off, looks away slightly, looks closed off and distant. So Crowley picks up for him: “Awkward? Embarrassssing?” Not ideal? A mockery of his desires? Please don’t hate him? “Mortifying?”

“...Yes.” Aziraphale says simply in response, sounding distant. “We should probably…” _get it over with_.

“Probably.” He agrees, sounding calmer than he feels. “Ssso who should..?” This time he’s the one to trail off. _Be the one to initiate_ , is the rest of the sentence. Crowley’s of the opinion it should be Aziraphale so there’s less…. well. Crowley would be respectful and careful, of course, but… Better to give him control. Just in case he does find out one day (which _would_ involve surviving this, so, like, silver lining). He doesn’t want him to be disgusted by this… interaction. To end up feeling there's something perverted about it.

He’s just about to suggest it, but it’s been a couple of mortifying seconds of tongue untangling and his angel speaks up first: “I think it should be me.” in such a soft voice.

“Sssoundss good.” He says, both relieved and beyond dead. Figuratively speaking. They’re just going to… They're about to… They're only going to… “I’m open whenever, baby.” He did not mean to phrase it that way. Why did he say that? Why is he like this? Why—

Suddenly there’s a… presence. A metaphysical presence that’s metaphysically closer to his metaphysical… ness. Not yet Touching. Metaphysical-units-of-measurementing closer and closer.

Angels (and Demons for that matter) don't really hang around in pure Essence Form (haven't since long before The War) or True Forms (also called Old Forms by some, and are, in fact, a different thing from Essence Forms) anymore. Corporations are far more practical, not just for interacting with the world or with humanity, but, for two factions that oppose each other violently, as a first line of defense. Demons in particular are less picky about whether or not their shell has flaws in them because having that extra layer of protection against Holy simply makes sense.  It makes sense for Angels, as well, but with less of a dire need than Demons since Angel Essence is inherently destructive to Demonic Essence[5] With the exception of stronger grades of Holy Water (or concentrated Hellfire in the case of Angels), corporations allowed for a little extra wiggle room where their existence would otherwise be a sitting duck. The old saying of smiting demons was far more relevant to those pre-corporation days when Holy could more directly burn away a Demon's entire being. Once physical shells became the hot new thing it became clear that, upon killing the shell, the Essence would wind up back at home base with significantly less damage than if they'd been without the shell.

Basically: Demon stabbed with Angel blade could lead to permanent death where a Demon safely ensconced in a corporation stabbed with Angel blade would be able to escape upon the death of the shell and thus still exist to try again. Useful stuff. It started making the last leg of The War a pain for both sides though. Both now having cannon fodder that was hard to permanently kill by skill alone since they'd just come crawling back in a new physical body. Physical bodies, of course, had distinct limitations, but the bonus of, y'know, not dying when killed was too much of a plus. And then, just as The War got too stalematey and both sides were getting bored and gaining no ground now that Demons weren't quite as distinctly disadvantaged, word got out that God had written down a part of Her plan. The Great Plan, the one he and Aziraphale and Adam and everyone just thwarted together. Everyone decided it was a perfect excuse to take a hiatus and spend time gathering resources for the next big one.

He's seen Aziraphale's True Form exactly once, and that was both several millennia ago and during a not-so-great incident involving another Angel, and Crowley about to be smited by said Angel. Aziraphale had been there too, looking incredibly awkward in the doorway the other Angel had just burst in from, whom he had clearly been following behind. The other Angel had been in possession of high grade Holy Water and was quite determined to use it on him. Not a fun scenario.

Aziraphale's solution to the problem, not that Crowley would admit to not being in on the solution until he found himself waking up in Hell surprisingly still existent if sans a physical form, was to play the 'I saw a Demon and lost my head so I went True Form and took your Holy Water and killed him myself, so sorry for stealing your kill' card. Except instead of eradicating Crowley from existence as both the other Angel and, initially, Crowley were led to believe, he'd simply caused enough chaos with his True Form to obfuscate Crowley from sight and sense, killed his corporation, and then played the role of overexcited Demon-smiting Angel.

After the initial horror of thinking Aziraphale had both attacked him and gone all in to permanently kill him, waking up in Hell, not only fine but even given a commendation for the lie he spun where he outwitted and tricked the Angels cunningly, was a fairly welcome realization.

Sodom and Gomorra had sucked all around.

At the time he was so focused on the thought ‘I'm gonna die’ and then the thought ‘Aziraphale, that dopey Angel who subtly defied God and was nice to me and saved kids against orders is going to be the one to kill me" that he hadn't really paid too much attention to the specifics of the Form. Wasn't exactly high priority at the time.

After, though, and especially later when he clocked on to the fact that he quite _liked_ Aziraphale, in a stronger-than-desired way, he thought about it. It'd been a long time since he'd been in Heaven by that point, and he'd never really cared for rank once he'd started Questioning, so he wasn't really up on what the expected shape of a Principality would be. He'd been a run-of-the-mill Angel, one of millions, and been primarily around others of his rank. Only occasional pop-ins from management, and they usually showed up in courtesy forms.

This is part of why the distinction between Essence Form and True Form is important. Long before corporations were a thing Essences were often molded into pleasing shapes or forms. Heaven used to have a _culture_ , you know. Or at least the beginnings of one. It wasn't always blank walls and capitalist orgy. True Forms are sort of like the natural molds the Essence likes to take, sort of like a default configuration, and Angels could and liked constructing their own personal molds to distinguish themselves from others. The lowest Choir, the Angels, were particularly fond of experimentation and individualization.  Angels had experimented bits at a time with self-expression, sometimes even creating multiple different molds, multiple True Forms, for their Essence to take and alternating through them as they wished.[6]

And like how wealth and genetics can limit humans aesthetically, rank could limit the degree of ostentatiousness. A Cherubim, if they wanted to, could be a galaxy-sized black hole of multicolor disco fever dream if they wanted, but run-of-the-mill Angels were primarily biped humanoids with wings, or otherwise smaller creatures or shapes. This had more to do with inherent power/energy than social mandates. Higher Angels simply had more Essence to use for crazier shit. Then again their default True Forms were already _quite_ crazy.

Humans nowadays will dress up with dyed hair and piercings, but clean up a little for an interview. This is basically what management would do when visiting the more social Angel choirs. Instead of showing up needlessly menacing and lame, they'd use a form slightly more Angel-like (later termed human-like).[7]

To sum up: Essence was Soul Stuff. True Form was shaped Essence. Angels have always been bastards. Thank you for coming to my TEDTalk.

Principalities in particular had been more 'down-to-earth' and generally went around more Angel-like anyways. Human descriptions would later describe Principalities as 'human-like with wings, wearing a crown and holding a sceptor', but Crowley doubts those are True Forms being described.[8]

Because Aziraphale's True Form that day had been only vaguely humanoid. Though it hadn't been outside of a Principalities' presumed capability either. While True Forms outside of the vanilla default were looked down on in Heaven nowadays (if he understood the rumors correctly) and Demons only had the ability to hold one True Form now and none of them were exactly pretty,  Crowley could absolutely see Aziraphale as an Angel that kept up non-default True Forms even though no one would ever see them.[9]

Actually, that's not quite true. Crowley had seen Aziraphale in True Form _twice_ now. It's just that the second was extremely recent, not even a day ago _wow_ , and he'd looked exactly like his physical form so Crowley hadn't really thought about it, but… yeah. So clearly Aziraphale kept up his own True Forms, or at least one at a time outside of default and had since changed from… _that…_ to just… being his human form. It _had_ been almost 4000 years since then.

Except. Now, in this moment he might be slightly disassociating from, Aziraphale's True Form is on display again and it looks more like the Sodom Form than his physical form. Like a superimposed image surrounding his human form, 'cept slightly gaseous looking at the edges. He wonders how it would look unfiltered by a physical shell.

It doesn’t look one-to-one with the Sodom Form. He doesn't have the size of the Sodom Form; he remembers vividly how that one had encompassed the entire room and prevented all escape. But now, in his flat, there’s no intimidating size. Intimidating, yes, but not from overwhelming size. He didn't take up space now the way that Form had. It was all centered over his human shell rather than enveloping the room. Slightly bigger, perhaps, but not by that much.

The weird face was there. The smooth roundness that definitely wasn't human, more porcelain than skin. No nose. An irisless and pupiless eye on each cheek (those two look kind of tired, as if struggling to remain open) in addition to two human placed eyes of the same irisless and pupiless nature; same light blue glow too. Cloth wrapped from shoulders down into the less Formed bottom half which hangs out more Essencey. Gasceous, he'd called the blurred edges of this one, where the Sodom one had been quite sharp. Less bright than previous, too. The Sodom one was blinding, ostentatious, where he was currently only slightly glowing. The halo, which was less a disconnected thing the way humans contemporarily looked to draw them or a halo of light behind the head as classics drew them, but more like… horns. They weren't horns in Angels, but a full circle, with an orb of light emanating from the center. The horn misconception about Demons and Satan came from 1) the variety of broken halos of the Fallen looking like different kinds of horns, 2) Satan's horns, and 3) humans like furrfying everything (that's not some new concept or anything).

Wings rucked up behind, not entirely unlike his physical manifestation's, but not the same either. More ruffled here, almost furry rather than feathery. Soft-looking. Smaller than his physical manifestations too. Well, they were now. Back in Sodom they were the pieces that encompassed the room so completely. Not even entirely spread and yet _everywhere_.

Over the course of the next few seconds, this Form resembles even less of the Sodom one in the lower half. The Sodom one had only been hip-up, no bother given considering legs, but this one was forming something leg-like out of the gaseous bottom half. It looked weird given the whole superimposed thing currently going on. Where Sodom had been a shift from Physical to True Form, this one was more like a soul leaving the body behind, but still tethered to the physical shell. A spirit superimposed. It was… different. Both less and more intimidating. Less in that he wasn't as Big Angel Going To Smite Ye (or pretending to as the case may be) and more because now he was more personable.

And then Crowley noticed the cloth draping loosely from the shoulders had a vague tartan patterning and all sense of mystique was lost (well maybe not ALL, but a decent portion of nerves were assuaged with 'yup, that's Aziraphale alright.')

"Tartan on your True Form ath well?" He whinges on because it sounds like something he'd do and it helps him say _something_ to break this tension in the air.

"It's—"

"If you say stylish." His voice echoes from his disembodied self as well as his physical mouth as he more or less forces it out into the open. Well, they're still very much in their physical bodies, just sort of… extensions. If he didn't do this suddenly, and right this second, he'd end up a mess of indecision and inadequacy and now is not the time for that.

Oh, it's still there. He's just fiercely not thinking about how pathetic and weak he looks in comparison. About the broken and fragmented halo that itches out in the open like this. The dark yet somehow still pale coloring of the Form. The torn cloth that's more faded gray than red. The black wings that are closer to the concept of skeletony than feathery, leather-like skin canvassing the spaces between. The if-he-were-human-it-would-be-classified-as-severely-underweight smallness. The scars and scratches all over, pockmarks, like a cat went to town all over him, various kinds of scratches and blemishes. How uncomfortable the fangs set on the form's mouth. Honestly the best part was the bottom half that he leisurely buried into the couch cushions between them, offering it into the middle ground to be the thing Touched. It still had the whole pockmark and cat-scratch thing going for it but at least it resembled a big menacing black and red snake that's been through fights than something small and pathetic-looking like his top half. He can't imagine Aziraphale being interested in Touching any of _that._

Not thinking about it might not be going as well as he'd hoped.

As mentioned previously, Demons no longer possess the ability to mold True Forms. Well, they could try, and many did in the time after the Fall and before everyone gave up, but Molding a True Form requires the ability to move and manipulate one's Essence into said molds, and for Demons, whose Essence is as weak and scarred as it is, that shit hurt like a _bitch_. And those who stubbornly fought through it claimed keeping those True Forms also hurt like a bitch. So everyone… just didn't bother anymore. Just one more thing they lost in the Fall.

And then physical forms became a thing and there was no looking back. Defense? A form they could decorate even if it was with literal things rather than Molding? Sure, most denizens in Hell either chose shitty things, sometimes literally, to decorate their altars, but at least it was _something_ . Self-expression was reattained. Even if Demons lost almost all care for that in the following millennia, at the time it was amazing. Sucked to lose something nice in a battle, so you went without anything personal, but still. Then The War officially ended and things… stagnated. Probably didn't help that they weren't quite as customizable as True Forms. Crowley's gotten plenty of mileage off of his, but then again it's an establishing character trait that he has an imagination. And millenia of watching humans. It might not be the _same_ , but it's still fun.

Aziraphale is staring at him. All 6 eyes. Crowley tries his best not to squirm under that gaze, works his mouth to not snap at him to just… hurry up and put him out of his misery already.

Eventually Aziraphale's Form reaches towards—his Form's shoulder. The cloth on it, that is. That part _would_ probably hurt the least if the worst happened.

As the Form gets closer and closer he gets stronger imprints of Aziraphale's state of mind. Hesitantance. Anxiousness. Nervousness. ~~Disturbance?~~

Just as that last indecipherable bit floats over, it’s **_there._ ** Touch. Contact. Whatever… Crowley's physical form shivers with nerves and he finds himself gripping the couch’s arm with both of his own arms. Both of their corporeal bodies are trembling from nerves, effort, and perhaps (PERHAPS!) a bit of overwhelm.

It’s like the lap of ocean swash. Or a finger trailing at that perfect 3-5 cm/s. The prickling creep of good ASMR. The scent of old books. The comfort of a rainy day in. Or—

Aziraphale lingers for a moment. It’s not a lightning quick Touch then Not Touch—well, that is what happens at first, but when Crowley doesn’t immediately implode (from the Holy nor his nerves) he returns. He only Touches the one area. Lingering, light, Form-fingertips on the edges of Crowley's Form-cloth-shoulder. And only that bit. And he only lingers long enough to see if his Essence will destroy Crowley’s (or vice versa).

Crowley takes a second or two to get some breathing in before quipping, "Well that's the test's test out of the way. Now for the truly mortifying part." From his physical mouth. All his Form effort is concentrated into not bursting into flames or wiggling his tail or showing _any_ expression on its stupid body. Trying to bring some levity into the moment feels important though.

Because now comes the actually terrifying part. So their True Forms didn't implode, so what? They're not planning on leaving a tiny True Form behind, they're going to fragment off a bit of their _Essences_ . That's the truly intimate part. True Form touching is like… you might prefer to cuddle with a friend than a stranger. Slight more than that, but close enough for comparison's sake. Essence Touching?  _That's_ like soul-tongue-kissing. Or soul-heavy-petting. Melding, which they will not be doing tonight, is less like sex and more like, well, _melding_.[10]

Best not to think about _that_ at all right now.

Again, Aziraphale is the one to initiate. The True Form holds up a mannequin hand and lets it disperse into a bit of Essence. Crowley looks away, especially as Aziraphale's feelings of fear overwhelm him. They smack right into him, even before Aziraphale has made Contact. It's so tentative, so gentle, so careful, Crowley has no idea what to do. It's not until Aziraphale sighs, the emotion of fear dimming and being replaced by slight irritation mixed with amusement, followed by physical, True, and Essences all vibrating a soft, "Crowley…" into the air.

Right. Kind of helps if he Essences up something too. Crowley isn't sure how intimate Angels consider Essence Form. It was considered An Option way back before The War if True Form wasn't for you, kind of like a nudist except significantly less ostracized than humans make the concept out to be. But once Demons' Essences were ravaged and weakened, allowing that pure essence to exist without Form became an even more intense show of trust. And no Demon trusts another.

Still. Needs must. And Aziraphale isn't some Demon, nor some Angel. Which kind of makes it worse in a different way.

Still.

He upholds his True Form's palm, mimicking Aziraphale's motion. The fingertips dissolve into a wisp of Essence.

We're gonna save y'all from the embarrassment that is Crowley's internal crisis at the point of contact. No Melding occurs. No catastrophe happens. They survive. No reason to make it complicated.

Crowley may feel destroyed, but metaphysically speaking nothing bad happens. No implosions or new scars. Lots of confusing emotions and _feelings_ , but that's fairly par for the course.

Aziraphale backs away the moment they’re certain Crowley isn’t affected. Negatively. They’re both flushed and nervous wrecks, but they’ve come out the other side alive and intact. Silver lining. Aziraphale actually just looks relieved for the most part. He's smiling to himself. That it worked out fine? That it’s over with?

Crowley meanwhile is doing his level best not to lose his shit. An impossible task, but he’s _fucking trying_.

“That’s… good.” Aziraphale breaks the silence first. Good, because Crowley is fucking incapacitated. Wait. Don’t think about good. Don’t think about his angel being as interested in it as him. No. Bad.

“Yeah. Good.” How he gets that response out is an enigma for the AGES.

“We should probably go ahead and initiate the switch then. Just… just in case, you know?” Aziraphale says bluntly. Oh dear Lord. The dearest of deer lords. Crowley hasn’t even recovered from the Test (or even the Test's test). Now he’s going to have to pretend to be Aziraphale, in Aziraphale's body, with a fragment of Aziraphale's essence hanging around? How?!?

He’s probably being a little dramatic, but just let him have this.

“Yeah, sure.” is what comes out of his mouth, and like, _how_ does he sound so calm??

He gathers what’s left of his sanity and focuses inward. To the fabric of his existence. Just enough… Just enough to… separate a small portion and leave it a Task. The separation part hurts a bit, but not as much as molding would've. It just kind of stings. Small, if odd, mercies.

Aziraphale lifts a hand, palm up, for Crowley to grab. He takes it and they both slide past one another (NOT TOUCHING) into the other’s corporation.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

1 He worries, after the fact, that Aziraphale could potentially realize he’s thought about the idea before now from it.

2 Or maybe it's not so much 'just about' as it is that he does. Maybe the fact he’s not certain if he does proves that he does.

3 The Melding bit, not the approximation of Melding they're about to do as a test run, or the fragmenting, or the executions, or Aziraphale Seeing him; okay maybe that last one on bad days.

4 Dammit. It’s always doing this whenever he gets too flustered or panicky. Honestly, it’s weird that he’s able to Hide this part at all. The Almighty probably knew sunglasses would be a thing… and what, felt pity for him? While cursing him? For the best at least. No such thing as sunglasses for the tongue. Tongueglasses.

5 It's less of a yin yang thing and more of a yang fuck you thing, with the singular existence of Hellfire bucking that expectation.

6 The vanilla mold was always present as a default to build off of. That way Angels couldn't accidentally erase all preset molds and be stuck as an amorphous Essence Form blob with no way to access a True Form again.

7 Well, some of them did. Some of them liked scaring the crap out of the Lower Angels and would intentionally show up in either default True Form or an even more hyped up True Form just to fuck with them. Bastards.

8 That being said, Crowley had been among those building the stars, and had therefore been even more isolated from the politics of Heaven. He knew the basics, but from what he understood things had somehow changed since The War anyhow so he didn't even know if what little information he had matched up with the new politics anyways.

9 "Well, I would always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean." Pouts.

10 You ever try mixing your soul with someone else's soul? Heavy stuff, that. Not that Crowley would know first-hand, but still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The worldbuilding begins, lol. The Essence Fragment testing & swapping was planned, but the True Form stuff was not. I just started adding some clarification to something to flesh it out... and it came together so naturally lol. Still in Shock, especially since it really ties into other Ideas present in this fic (and Canon things like Crowley liking to change up his corporation's look, etc.). My brain naturally locates plot holes and desperately desires to fill them AND I like to have my cake and eat it too so I was like… I wanna have Essence Forms… AND True Forms… but if True Forms aren't Essence Forms… then what are they? And my brain went THEY'RE THIS NOW. And that's the story of how Heaven used to have a culture before The War (which was a vague unfleshed out concept I already had for the fic but this helped me solidify it lol).
> 
> Also the bodyswapping scene went long so it's continued/finished next chapter before we return to the present.
> 
> Aziraphale's and Crowley's True Forms in this chapter are loosely based off [10yrsy's](https://www.deviantart.com/10yrsy/art/GO-Ball-and-Chain-pt2-808471863) drawings of Book!Boys' True Forms. It should be noted that I started describing the pockmarks on Crowley's True Form having completely forgotten the whiteish circle patterning depicted on 10yrsy's version. Lol. I was picturing him more like that dark gray/black, but without the patterning, just cat-scratch-like scars and small dents/depressions in the skin. And then I looked at their version again and was like 'oh shit the patterning, while cool, might make that confusing as contrasted to this fic’s version'. So I wanted to point that out.


	3. Emotional Support Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second half of the bodyswapping. From Crowley's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Gabriel's a canonical dick.

**Crowley's Apartment  
** **Bodyswap continued...**  
**Crowley**

Ugh. Now he has to act like Aziraphale.

That’s definitely the worst part of this entire thing. Definitely that. Not the possible death sentences, or even the mortifying ordeal of being Known. Definitely _not_ the fragment of his friend still present in his current home that's small and terrified of his demonic presence. Definitely the having to pretend to talk and walk like Aziraphale bit.

Said fragment has shrunk in on itself, making itself as distant and small as possible from the perceived threat of Demon. Away from his intimidating mess. A small separated slice of Holy that fears his Demonic mass. Of course it does. He’s trying not to crowd it, but there’s only so much he can do. And in order to do its Task of masking Crowley it will have to stretch itself throughout the body he’s controlling now. It’s understandably confused and scared; what with being left behind, separated and alone, with a Demon at that...

He tries to approach it as cautiously as a metaphysical essence can approach a non-sentient piece of essence. Emitting intent of Not A Threat To You and supplication. It's not entirely dissimilar to approaching a nervous and scared animal.

True to Aziraphale's nature, even while small and scared and soft-looking, eventually Crowley's 'inching' gets that bit too close for comfort and it lashes out, quickly and aggressively, sharp and threatening. An aggressive defense, though only once backed into a corner. Crowley manages to avoid the attack in time and uses it as a moment to intimate _See? I backed off the moment you said to. I listened. I will not force myself on you nor harm you. You have control here. I am a guest. I am not a threat. I will not hurt you. You can trust me. You are safe. You are safe with me._

He keeps up this line of intimation for a while. Or at least it feels like a while. He does so patiently regardless of how long it takes. It must be successful, as he senses the fragment calm after a bit. No longer aggressive, but no longer cowering. Still defensive and untrusting. After a while of this, it reaches out a tendril of its Self into the small middle-distance between them. An olive branch. A wing. A thermos of Holy Water. Crowley slowly and tentatively mimics. The smallest tendril of Self forming to approach the fragment's. The fragment twists and surveys the offering thoroughly, backing off only twice (the initial approach, and then once, suddenly, a few moments into its scan after which it began enthusiastically looking him over). He remains as still as possible throughout this investigation. Careful not to startle it again. He just allows it to Look at him and get comfortable. Eventually he must pass its examination because it relaxes fully and returns to its assigned Task of embedding itself in the skin and eyes. Crowley slowly relaxes Himself after a moment of letting the fragment commit itself in order to take proper control of Aziraphale's body.

He opens the eyes, works the mouth, checks teeth with tongue, stretches and tests various muscle groups until he feels more at home in Aziraphale's shape. One of the curses the Almighty put on him way back when along with his tongue and eyes and name was his body shape. Long and spindly. Let him never forget his connection to serpents. It's… interesting being something that's not very snake-like again. He may be more than a little biased, but it's nice.

He doesn't focus on the warm presence of Aziraphale's fragment encompassing him. Not at all.

He looks over to Aziraphale, slightly weirded out to see himself looking back. Sitting more primly than he ever has. Staring right at him, smiling affectionately, with those eyes of his. Ouch. Is it possible to take psychic damage from finding your crush adorable even in your own hated skin??

“How do I look?” Aziraphale says slyly, after a moment of Crowley staring like a lovesick dumbass. The face is _dimpling_ with his angel’s wide grin. Knock that off. He’s not supposed to look good in dimples. Stop that.

“Absolutely demonic.” He confirms. The familiar orange-gold serpent eyes stare at him with a soft intensity he doesn’t see when he looks at himself in the mirror. It's really weirding him out. “If it wasn’t for that dopey look on my face. And the posture; I do _not_ sit like that.”

Aziraley makes a face at that and rolls his shoulders before relaxing into the couch corner. Close enough. “The same can be said of you, my dear. Minus the demonic part.” he says with a new, soft smile.

Sighing to cover both the relief that this plan is working, and his shy heart from that soft expression, he straightens up a touch, just to prove he can. It’s a bit easier than normal, he finds. Aziraphale’s fragment doing work even there to make it that little bit easier to not have to contort himself to lessen his physical discomfort. Still unpleasant though.

 _Why_ is he smiling at Crowlephale like that? All soft and pleased like that. Did… oh no. Did his fragment do something embarrassing?? If it were possible, he’d yell at it like he would one of his plants. What did it do???

The fragment from Aziraphale may not understand why Crowley’s internally freaking out, but it still _caresses_ Him in an attempt to calm him down. Oh no. He’s ended up with his own personal support Aziraphale. That comforts him when he’s upset and is cute and sweet and soft and small and accompanies him on life or death suicide missions. Just wonderful. That's sarcasm by the way. Not wonderful. Terrifying. Nerve-wracking. Nnnnnnng.

They spend a bit critiquing and making fun of each other’s impressions before Aziraphale brings up, “Would my bookshop still be burned?” It comes almost out of nowhere, as far as Crowley’s concerned. Well, perhaps not nowhere. He’d been pretending to read a book with those silly glasses on the face and everything. Still.

“Yeah. I was there, it—”

“No, no.” Crowley’s head shakes itself at a more Aziraphale frequency. “I believe you. That’s not what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following, angel.”

“Not an angel right now.” Aziraphale says with this silly little smirk on his face. Crowley doesn’t really find that joke half as amusing as Aziraphale seems to. “But I meant—you said so earlier. Adam changed the world so the Apocalypse never happened. His father is his real father now. The things that had been happening—Atlantis, The Kraken, etcetera—have now never happened. So: what else hasn’t..?”

Now Crowley sees what he’s getting at and feels a pang of worry. Hope, that’s what Aziraphale’s feeling right now. But what if it isn’t? What if the bookshop is still destroyed?

“Can hardly go looking like that, not from my place. Wouldn’t make much sense.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale says, blinking as if surprised and looking at his hands, then smoothing down the jacket. “Right. Just so.” He then opens his mouth, probably to tell Crowley that he’ll just have to go for him, but to Crowley’s surprise he clicks it shut and says nothing.

“I could go. That’d hardly be strange.” He offers when Aziraphale continues to say nothing. The vacant expression that was directed at his hands morphs into a soft wonder and weak hope as he looks up at Crowley.

“Would you? I hate to ask—”

“Is fine, angel. It'd probably be weirder if I didn’t.” That part’s true. Even if the fine part isn’t. _What if it’s still destroyed?_ “We could meet up somewhere after.” Just in case it is destroyed, then at least Crowley will be able to prepare him for the disappointment without having to watch him struggle to act unaffected as Crowley, or see the devastation on his face as he reacts to it in realtime.

“That sounds perfect.” Aziraphale smiles widely. And Crowley smothers a frisson of fear that Aziraphale will be completely unable to pull this off. If Hell found out an Angel was pretending to be him? That Aziraphale, the other traitor, was pretending to be him? That would probably be so much worse than what they planned for just Crowley.

Then his happy expression morphs into one of delight: “And if my bookshop’s fine, then that means your car ought to be too!”

That’s a happy thought. His car still well and pristine? He can empathize with Aziraphale’s hopefulness a little easier now.

“St. James?” Aziraphale suggests their meeting location.

He agrees and worries.

He worries right until he’s standing outside the shop. There’s no fire damage on the outside. No sign of the other night’s trauma.

_He remembers the terror of not being able to sense Aziraphale. He couldn’t individually sense every Demon or Angel on Earth, but he’d become quite attuned to Aziraphale’s signature. It was a comfort, noticing the return of his angel from a trip to Heaven._

_Except now there is a lack. He’d gone to Heaven (don’t think about the alternative,_ do not _think about the alternative,_ ~~do not think about Hellfire~~ _). Was it Hastur? Had Heaven found out as well? Whatever the case, his angel was gone from Earth. Discorporated most likely (please let it only be that). Back to Heaven. While he was on Earth there was a chance of convincing him, of seeing him again one day, or of—it wasn’t exactly a coherent thought process, but rather a desperate, nameless hope. But back in Heaven? He’d be ordered into line, into the coming War. And even if he refused (refused_ Heaven _, the thing Crowley had always been second to), he didn’t have a body to return to Earth in. And even_ then _, even if he came back despite all of that—his_ bookshop _. His_ home. _It was gone. He was gone. His best friend, Aziraphale, was gone. Armageddon was here. Humanity was doomed. He had no idea where the Antichrist was—apparently Aziraphale had figured it out just before—and even if by some miracle Hell didn’t kill him for his deeds, everything… everything was going to end. Earth, Humans, either Heaven or Hell… He’ll never see him again—_

But it wasn’t damaged now. The outside was normal, much to the fragment’s squirmy joy. Awkward, that. Like a wiggly cat in your arms trying to get a good spot. He surveyed the inside as well, relieved to find it as intact as the outside. Adam really had ‘reset’ the world.

~~Then why was Ligur’s stain still on his flat’s floor?~~

Regardless, everything is here. In its place. There’s an odd new collection of books—but they’re additions not subtractions so Crowley figures he’ll just leave them for Aziraphale to decide upon. The fragment is pulsing in soft joy, glad to see its home in one piece. Crowley feels for it, and has to put effort into not smiling at its happy presence.

There’s relief in Aziraphale confirming there wasn’t a scratch on his car. He doesn’t let it show on his face, though. Aziraphale wouldn’t be happy about _his_ car. He also does his best to keep his facade from cracking when he tells Aziraphale that the bookshop is indeed fine. He changes sides in order to have a better view of the surroundings, then tries not to glare at the ice cream cone he finds in his hand. Aziraphale has ordered basically what they would’ve gotten—except because of the swap he’s currently staring at the order he has less personal interest in.

Aziraphale’s actually pretty good at pretending to be him. Where Crowley finds himself having to reign in expressions that don’t belong on Aziraphale’s countenance, Aziraphale is rather accurately getting his twitching and facial contortions. Suddenly Crowley’s more worried for his performance than Aziraphale’s. It’s not a surprise, not really, Aziraphale’s always been the kind of person to put his whole being into the things he commits himself to.

He is, however, fairly gratified that he’s not the only one confused about recent events. At least they can both be confused together.

Then everything goes to Hell in a handbasket. Or to Heaven on an escalator, as is his case.

* * *

**Heaven  
** **Aziraphale’s ‘Trial’**   
**Crowley-as-Aziraphale**

He hasn’t been to Heaven since before the Fall, it looks completely different than any memory he may have had of the place. Where Hell was cramped and sparse of resources, Heaven was… too big. He made his flat big and empty because it was convenient. More room to walk around, to pace, plenty of room to put whatever he wanted wherever he wanted, and whenever Hell popped in for a visit they couldn’t as easily accuse him of getting attached. If it happened to be an antithesis to Hell’s situation, well, that was for Crowley to know and everyone else to fuck off.

Heaven, though, was truly empty. Crowley’s flat had things he liked in it. It may not have been much, but they were his. Personal. Heaven had _nothing._ Not even those worthless plastic plants to spruce up the place with.

Aziraphale’s bookshop had never felt cramped the way Hell had. It was full of beloved objects and generally devoid of people. It was comfortable.

Heaven was very much _not that_.

The fragment was the opposite of thrilled to be back as well. Crowley didn’t feel anything positive in being back in Heaven, mostly discomfort and the low simmer of anger, but the fragment was… he’d have expected it to be sad. This would be the last time here, last time in Heaven after all, (for a long time, provided nothing bad happened between now and the future). But rather than sad or nostalgic, it felt _nervous_. It vibrated tension and the flight part of fight or flight. Vigilant, _protective_ , and on edge.

If Crowley couldn’t help feeling protective in return, well, that’s his little secret.

He flexes the hand under the rope, trying to work out some of the anger so it’s at least manageable. There’s many reasons he hates this. Fall trauma, Gabriel’s a prick, the way Aziraphale always seemed distant after a visit to or from Heaven, but namely the line from Agnes Nutter: ‘Soon you will be playing with fire.’ The whole reason they’re doing this swap is under the expectation they will be executed.

And then it’s time. Gabriel’s arrived, putting on an act of casualness. The touch to the shoulder makes his skin crawl, and the fragment isn’t all too pleased either. It can’t decide if it wants to skewer the Archangel or cower away from him. Pisses Crowley off more, really.

Crowley thinks his quips are very Aziraphale-like. That pedantic rules-lawyering mixed with the expectation of good. Stubborn, his angel. Fierce and kind. The only Angel worth his wings.

Gabriel’s… enthusiasm is disturbing. Genuinely so. He looks so excited to watch Aziraphale die. Crowley does his best not to let on that he feels like gagging.

Then the demon arrives with the Hellfire[1]. And even though he knew this is where it was all leading he still can’t prevent the flare-up of rage at the scene before him.

It’s in this moment, facing the hellfire, that he realizes that this is even more than he was initially thinking it would be, and he was initially thinking this whole fragment business was A Lot. But Aziraphale’s fragment trembles while he stares at it with contempt. Of course it’s terrified. Hellfire will destroy it. That’s the whole point of this exercise. He'd neglected to consider he’d not only need to inhabit the body with it, but would have to protect it from the flames as well. He can’t exactly do that if it’s sitting on the _outside_ , enveloping _him._

He’s going to have to envelope it with his essence as well in order to protect it. No amount of doubt or worry will keep him from protecting even that smallest bit of his angel, so he calls out to the fragment in that metaphysical intimation. He tries to communicate to it that he can protect it from the flames, but he will have to envelope it in order to do so. To his surprise, the fragment is both quick to agree and eager to allow him. There’s no hesitation at all. Not even a hint of one. Angels really don’t like Hellfire, huh?

When it comes time to step into the flames, he’s careful not to allow any gaps for the hellfire to slip through and harm it. It’s intimate in theory, sure, but the situation hardly allows for dwelling on that kind of thing, plus: it's like having intimacy with, like, what would be analogous to this? A skin graft? Skin grafts are fine when they’re on people, but you try finding a severed strip of skin sexy. You’ll end up on some strange places on the Internet.

The anger of Crowley’s is steadily rising still. Understatement. No trial. Not even a sham of one. That would have hurt his oft-naive, always-optimistic friend. They wouldn’t have even let his angel have a say. And there's that demon that asked to _hit_ his angel. He reconsidered, smart thing, but it still rankles. The instinctual flinch from the fragment. And then that _bastard_ Gabriel _dares_ to talk to his angel like that. The skin graft may not be a fully sentient entity like its Whole, but it’s still enough to react to its former boss speaking about Aziraphale that way. He especially hates how… resigned to it the fragment is. Like… like it's _used_ to it. It makes his blood boil. He clenches his teeth and puts effort into maintaining the facade instead of bitchslapping an Archangel. Instead, he tentatively offers waves of denial and comfort to the fragment, which it eagerly laps up. The words are playing on repeat for Crowley though, as he steps into the much more inviting hellfire. Him and the fragment make the successful transition on the feet as he steps in.

_Shut your stupid mouth and die already._

He might have a bit too much fun making a show of it. But it makes the little essence of Aziraphale do the equivalent of a _soul-giggle_ , vibrating in amusement where it's tucked between an outer layer of Himself, and that makes him giddy with the heady sensation that he can make even a small fragment of his friend happy and safe.

That and the angels' faces are priceless. The fragment gets a good kick out of them as well, especially Gabriel's and Sandalphon's. And who is he to deny his angel’s amusement?[2]

It goes well, which is good. He walks out of Heaven a free man, and the fragment is ecstatic. Meeting Aziraphale at the park comes with a sense of relief; he made it through too. Good. No worse for wear. Good, good. That's… good.

Switching back is significantly less interesting. Once he’s scanned the area for eyes in their direction, and determined a lack there-of, they switch back. The fragments stay behind and they both return to being themselves. Crowley takes a moment to interrogate his left-behind fragment, which does little more than act smug, give a metaphysical thumbs-up, and assimilate back into the fold. Typical.

The following few days are dreamlike. He spends as much time as he can with his angel; they're no longer secrets from the other side and they no longer have work for said other side which means they could spend eternity together, openly, if only Aziraphale also desired it. So Crowley uses any excuse he can to spend things with him until he's told to stop.

And then he takes a nap.

Until Friday.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

1 The Demon in question, not anyone of importance, was rather glad upper management allowed him the use of an artifact (boots) that allowed him to inhabit the space for his mission. Blisters were not on the day's agenda—well, not for him at least.

2 Unless it was magic tricks. However charming Crowley finds his enthusiasm, it’s just so embarrassing to watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley as the essence fragment welcomes his protection: Angels must really hate Hellfire, huh?  
> Me, sobbing: He's just so fucking stupid.
> 
> Jk jk. I just like having one party oblivious while the other party is super not oblivious. It's very unstoppable force meets immovable object. Except this unstoppable force is a determined if nervous and uncertain Aziraphale, and the immovable object is a self-deprecating, anxious mess, pining Crowley. I make good decisions (/s).


	4. Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like relatable Demons, anxious Angels, and Anathema and Newt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Anxiety. I give all my characters anxiety.

**Crowley's Apartment  
** **At Nap’s Completion  
** **Crowley**

There's something uniquely fascinating with the mind after it's just woken up. The random creation of dreams sometimes persists for minutes after the eyes open. And yet it persists in a non-lucid state. Awake, but still dreaming. It's not always enjoyable, but it makes for a great excuse not to get up for a while.

Right up until the panic of 'what day is it?' hits. Then he's wrestling with the sheets to grab at his phone. If it was just work on the horizon he might've instead curled up and put off finding out until the last possible moment, but the realization that he was supposed to meet up with Aziraphale within the week has him scrambling for a calendar.

Sunday. It's fucking Sunday. _He slept through it_.

As he throws the covers off with a groan he stares at the date on the phone screen as if that will cause it to turn backwards. He knows how to pause local time, not rewind it. Why didn't the alarm—?

_Crowley vaguely remembers waking up briefly, snapping the alarm off, and rolling over to continue sleeping._

...Dammit.

He presses a bit of lip between his teeth as he punches Aziraphale's contact to call him up. It rings and rings, with no answer. Long enough he's certain Aziraphale's not home. He presses his wrist into his eyes.

A fear-filled thought rears its head: what if he's not answering because he's _not there_. Either through something happening, or from Aziraphale _leaving._

 _He wouldn't just leave his bookshop_ , Crowley tries to calm himself. _Surely not._

The fear has taken hold of him though. Part of why he'd been so eager to spend the past week (well, first week post Armagetout) with Aziraphale was because the excuse to see him was too good to pass up, but also because he's become paranoid whenever Aziraphale leaves his sight. What if Heaven or Hell shows up while they're alone? What if he could've helped by being there?

It's unreasonable, but the paranoia is only assuaged when he can prove to it that Aziraphale is _fine._ That he's still there, alive, well, smiling. He didn’t walk into that Hellfire. Crowley did. They’re both _fine._

Hopefully his angel isn't too annoyed by his clinginess. He _had_ said that he enjoyed the time together.

Regardless, he should dress up and drop by. Apologize in person (see for himself if he has, indeed, _left_ ). 

Shower first.

He doesn’t quite get that far as when he opens the door into the main room he finds himself rooted in place. Aziraphale is sitting right before him on his couch. Reading a book. Glancing up at him as he enters the room. _Smiling at him as he enters the room_ —

"Oh. Hey, angel." He manages through his confusion and inner cacophony. "Fancy meeting you here." What are the words even coming out of his mouth??

"I hope you don't mind me letting myself in; you said I was welcome to visit whenever I liked and I thought I’d take you up on that." Aziraphale gives him a worried look, worried he's crossed a boundary probably, but Crowley makes a scrunched mouth and shakes his head while mumbling, "Nah." _Come around whenever you like,_ he thinks. _Come around all the time._

Aziraphale tilts his head, looking a bit smug somehow, and eyeing Crowley, and asks, "Good nap?" Shit. He's not dressed in more than boxers and a tank top at the moment. Uh. Act cool. Look like it's fine. 

"Uh. Yeah. Yeah. I, uh, really needed that I guess." He leans against the doorframe as he's talking, trying to appear casual. He runs a hand through his hair compulsively. "Er, sorry about missing our" don't say date, _don't_ say date, do not say _date_ , "meet-up. Lost track of time."

"Clearly." Aziraphale's still smiling softly at him. Not upset then. That's good. What was he even worried about again? "When you didn't show, I stopped by here to check on you, but it quickly became apparent you were just sleeping deeply. I hope you don't mind me making myself at home?" He glances at the book in his hands.

"No no." He says quickly. "Mi casa es su casa."

"That's Spanish, isn't it?" His eyebrows scrunch up in bewilderment, but they smooth as he translates it manually. His angel is a goddamn wonder. Well, less damn more wonder. Crowley sometimes wonders how he functions in daily conversations. He'd love to set him loose at a college party and watch every facial expression throughout the night—of both his angel's and the party-goers'.

"Still up for St. James later?" He tries to ask casually.

"Absolutely.” He then raises his brows in mock judgery and adds, "You may wish to dress in something more before then."

Bastard angel.

“Yes, yes. Wouldn’t want to offend your standards.” He rolls his eyes, makes a step back into the bedroom, remembers he was going to shower, and makes the decision to go back into the bedroom after all in order to take clothes with him instead of coming back for them since Aziraphale was going to be occupying the connecting room.

* * *

**Aziraphale**

Unbeknownst to Crowley, Aziraphale reacted to that remark with a stricken expression he tried to cover up and the thought, _That’s not what I meant, my dear. I only meant you might like to… for your own sake… Oh, I do hope that was just sarcasm and not..._

* * *

**Jasmine Cottage  
** **Not** **_that_ ** **long after Armenah  
Anathema Device**

Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer have entered into a very strange association. They're both vaguely aware they helped prevent the apocalypse, and the memories are there, mostly, but they're also somewhat distant and dreamlike. And yet there's no memories to replace them either. There were, at first, but they've since become more faded than the previous reality's memories.

It's easier for Anathema to remember the previous events, and she's been thinking about them a lot these past few days. About how she'd gone from being disappointed in what 'fate' had led to her, to feeling grateful for his presence. Apocalypse thwarting was hardly something to build a relationship on though.

And so they agreed to start again, properly. None of this fated into bed stuff. They've been on two dates where they talked about themselves, their families, their aspirations, but also spent time discussing them together. Anathema wasn't used to an open future, after all, and hadn't thought much on what she wanted out of her life _for herself_.

And she found herself enjoying his company. He was nervous and shy, but not necessarily _afraid_ to speak his mind. He made his own suggestions, recommendations, (really bad jokes), pushed when he thought it was important and backed down when Anathema needed him to…

Point is: they genuinely seem to get along. So far at least. Fate may be a disappointment, but reality is pretty nice.

Everything was pretty nice actually. She decided to live in Jasmine Cottage a bit longer instead of returning to America. Both to get to know Newton a bit better, a bit easier, but also to check in on Adam and The Them. Or, well, more often than not they would wander by her place to see if she had anything interesting or if she wanted to join them. It was super sweet.

Yup. Everything was nice.

And then _he_ showed up.

Oh, the person themself wasn’t the problem. Like the lawyer before, he seemed oddly intent on learning the contents of the box his family had safeguarded for generations, then ran out at the first sign of blackmail (two times doesn’t quite make a theme, but is enough to make Anathema wonder at her ancestor’s propensity for it). And suddenly, Anathema was alone, staring at _another_ copy of “Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter Concerning the World that is to Come. Ye Saga Continues.” This time without Newt by her side, telling her she doesn’t have to. He’s there in spirit. Telling her it isn’t okay for Agnes to pester her like this. That Anathema made her choice and shouldn’t be coerced into this again.

But it should be said that Anathema isn’t just a descendant, but also a curious person. To be honest, it’s that all-natural curiosity, more than any dedication to family legacy, that itches under her skin to peek within the pages. She doesn’t want to pour over them, trying to decipher them. She doesn’t want to return to that, with her new life ahead of her with so many possibilities…

But in a general sense? Well, curiosity, yes, as said, but also worry. Surely burning a single set of meaningless prophecies would have been the end of it short of a genuine problem that needs to be solved.

~~Not to mention that it’s her dut—~~

It’s with that thought, just as she’s reaching tentatively to flip over the first page, that she snaps to awareness and grabs for her phone. She dials Newt’s number, only remembering the time of night when her eyes flick to the shadow of the window.

“Anathema?” He asks tiredly.

“She sent another one.” She says simply. She wants to apologize—for waking him up, for bringing him into this part of her life again, for wanting to beg him to keep her from doing this to herself—but that’s the first thing that comes out of her mouth.

“Wuh?” He moans. Clearly not all there. “Who did..? Send—?”

He seems to figure it out himself just as Anathema impatiently says, “Agnes.”

“Ah.” He says eloquently. “Do you… would you like me to come over?”

Anathema doesn’t say anything for a moment, her eyes fixed on the dark, quiet world outside. Newt lives in London. It would be a drive up to Tadfield. At this time of night. That she woke him up for.

“It’s over an hour drive.” She replies instead. “And I’ve already gone and woken you up. You could… come up later. If you want. I just… needed to talk to someone.”

“That’s not what I—” He cuts himself off and instead rephrases, “Would you like it if I was there with you?”

“Yes.” She says honestly. She doesn’t want to open the thing, but she doesn’t trust herself not to if she’s left alone with the thing. Well, maybe she does want to open the thing, but… ugh. Complicated.

“Then I’ll come up.” Just as she opens her mouth to argue he adds, “I don’t mind. _Really._ ”

She considers for a moment, glancing quickly at the manuscript, and swallowing. “I’d really like that, actually. _Thank_ you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He says off-handedly. She can hear the rustle of him getting out of bed to get dressed. First impressions really aren't the end all, she thinks warmly.

* * *

**Jasmine Cottage  
** **An hour later  
** **Newton Pulsifer**

Newton finds himself on his girlfriend's couch early in the morning staring at a book of prophecies. His life sure got weird quickly.

He watches tiredly as Anathema moves around the room with nervous energy.

"Have _you_ slept in the last 24 hours?" He asks, feeling more tired just watching her pace around distractedly.

She sits down next to him and shakes her head. He takes up one of her hands to hold and says, "You should. You'll find this easier with a full night's sleep."

"I feel like jumping out of my skin." She says honestly, then buries her head in her hands. "You're right though. Maybe it won't be so bad when I'm not so wired up."

She stands and heads into the kitchen, asking if he wants anything. Just a cuppa is fine for him, he says knowingly. She rolls her eyes at his reluctance to try one of her more witchy recipes. A few minutes later she returns with two mugs. One for him, and some mixture for herself that's supposed to promote sleep.

He spends a bit trying to distract her as she consumes her sleep aid. He stays away from family topics, and instead tries for something more mindless: her favorite cryptids.

When she starts looking a bit droopy, he takes the empty mug she's been holding for comfort and urges her again to bed.

She offers him the bed too, but he's already awake so he declines the offer.

“If…” Anathema says nervously, having just stood up from the couch. “You can look at them. If you want to. Don’t tell me about them afterwards, but… you can look through them if you decide you want to. Or burn them. Just… whatever.”

She’s giving him permission to do whatever he wants with them. She's having trouble making this decision herself and is letting him take this burden off of her. He feels honored by that trust.

“Sure.” is what he ends up saying. “Go to bed.” He insists again, just to see her roll her eyes at him.

Newton glares at the Further Prophecies that he has been left alone with, staring at it with a feeling of disappointment, thinking about why Agnes would even bother with this again. If she sent a second one down the vine, then she must know the first one was discarded. So why send a second one at all unless she wasn’t ‘nice’ after all—

That’s when a thought hits him though. She’d address it, surely? She’d address the burning, and address her reasoning for trying to push this onto Anathema again, right? Forewords were a thing. Wouldn’t she write a foreword?

And it’s with that thought that his hands take up the manuscript. He doesn’t turn that page quite yet, instead preparing himself for what might be on that dreaded second page. It could be a foreword like he hopes, giving a voice to the dead witch causing his girlfriend grief, or it could end up being a prophecy Agnes considered particularly important and thus she would prepare it here to ensure it be read when she sees him decide to open it after all...

Having steeled himself, he then removes the first page, and reads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was just going to have Anathema and Newton hilariously having misadventures in the background with a persistent Agnes getting creative and being a [nuisance from beyond the grave](https://dreamehz.tumblr.com/post/635167026922602496/agnes-nutter-is-a-nuisance-from-beyond-the-grave), but then I read a Tumblr post talking about Ana/Newt's relationship and Anathema being able to live her own life now and I went "Fuck I like that too." I think I've come up with a compromise to these two wildly different interpretations, but we'll see.


	5. Apologies For My (Past) Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The initial concept of this fic makes a cameo in this chapter. Less of the courting, more of the Aziraphale trying his best, but still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: People apologize to and compliment each other.

**Jasmine Cottage**   
**Couple hours later**   
**Anathema**

"How bad is it?" Anathema asks nervously as she exits the bedroom later that morning. Then her parched throat reminds her of other things so she holds up her hand and commands, "Wait, hold on."

She takes a detour to the kitchen for a glass of water. She finds a glass first thing in the morning helps wake her up. Then, when she comes back to take the spot next to Newton, she chugs quite a bit of it before giving a more final go ahead.

"It's not really. Bad, I mean. I think." He tells her. Which is… interesting. "In fact… Well, you should definitely read it for yourself. The first page was addressed to me," It's sitting separate from the others, available but separated, "and addressed my concerns. I read through the rest of it and it seems genuine. I think you should decide for yourself once you've read it."

That's not what she expected at all. Vibrating with curiosity, she snatches up the papers and begins reading aloud the words as they appear:

"Greetings, dear Anathema. I hope my words find you, if not in good spirits now, then in good spirits soon. This packet is not intended to bring you malaise, my dear descendent. In fact, you'll find this particular parcel is lacking in my usual style of prophecy. It is, instead, meant to enable a blunt discourse between us. Speak aloud any questions or demands you have of this relationship, and I will do my best to yield to your wishes.

I would like to take a moment to note that while my previous prophecies were all accurate, that was much because the fate of the world was careening towards that particular ending. You both helped to prevent that fate. No one has said so, and not many will know to do so, so I will say it here: Thank you.

Now, with the future uncertain as it was meant to be, I fear my prophecies may not be as accurate as they once were, though I aim for them to remain quite Nice. I am human and my abilities can only do so much, but I will try my best to let you speak your mind. You are strong and fierce, and make me very proud daily. Know that my prophecies were never intended to control, only to guide, to assist and lead you to a better future. I am sorry I was not able to see a way through that fate.

I was being too closely watched in that version of the world. I could not chance further additions to my legacy then. Not the way I can now.

Armageddon is last millennia after all.

Anywho, that is enough bantering from an old biddy. Please, speak your mind, Anathema Device, and only turn the page once you have spoken in full. I will be right here at my writing desk, ready to respond to your queries to the best of my ability."

Anathema probably looks as shocked as she feels. She stares down at the papers, looks up to blink at Newt to which he responds with a nervous smile, and then rereads her ancestor's words again. She brings a hand up to her mouth to cover it and finally puts the papers back on her lap before incredulously muttering, "I don't know…"

Where to start. What to say. What to do.

Newton asks her, "What do you _want_ to do?"

"I want…" She starts, but isn't sure how to continue. She swallows, chugs a few sips from her water, and then says out loud: "I want to know why you've decided to continue this, and why it's me you're sending them to. If you sent them to mom, she'd probably read and follow them without this hassle."

She moves to the next page and reads out: "Well, I quite enjoy this hobby for one. For another, while the world may have been saved from annihilation this time, there are a few things of note that will be occurring in short time. And the third is also an answer to your second question: your mother isn't the young woman I see before me and wish to see prosper. I love her dearly as well, but you are correct in thinking she would follow my words blindly. That is not my wish. I want, rather, to guide, not to control.

And there's the fact she's not involved in any of the foolishness I'm currently bearing witness to.

For you see that while it is you I would like to communicate to and through, if you are willing, there are others in your orbit who also interest me, and who I also wish to see happy and healthy. The boy Adam and his friends. The false sergeant and the honest woman, to a lesser extent.

And those two idiots. You know which ones. They will call upon you for a friendly visit a few days from now. Good luck."

"Well that's not ominous at all." Anathema intones at the end.

Newt then asks, "... which two do you think she's referring to?"

Anathema looks at him, slightly bewildered. "That couple that hit me with their car and stole my book I would think."

"I hope that's it. Could you imagine those other two coming down upon our door?"

Anathema takes a moment to imagine the fly person and the obnoxious bastard showing up on her doorstep expecting tea and scones and shudders at the thought.

"Point made. So they're going to visit?"

"Apparently. Do you not want them to?"

Anathema considers it for a moment. She hadn't gotten a chance to talk to them once the two assholes showed up, and she'd had a lot of questions about what half the things they were saying were about. She had a hypothesis about it and would like a chance to test it out…

"Yes. I think we should have them over sometime."

Without thinking she thumbs the top page and stares at the revealed, simple prophecy that reads, "It would be best to purify the water disperser of Holy Water."

"Yeah I have no idea what she's talking about here." Newton offers up. Anathema blinks at it, then glances up at the ceiling warily. Good luck indeed.

"It's a family thing. Lots of rituals to repel evil and the like. I always keep a bottle of holy water in stock, and sometimes we even put some into humidifiers to purify and cleanse the air."

"Huh." Newton says, clearly lost but trying his best. "We don't really use humidifiers." He gestures out the window to indicate the general area of Britain. "So I guess she's saying _don't_ do that?"

"Surely she's saying I _should_ fill it? To purify the air." They'll be dealing with a potential demon after all. Better safe than sorry.

"Look at the sentence structure." He points at the part he's referring to. "Of. Purify it _of_ holy water."

Anathema rereads it and finds herself agreeing with his assessment. "So instead of going through my usual ritual I should just… not use the holy water?"

"Maybe wash it out too?" Newton looks like his life couldn't get any weirder than the words coming out of his mouth.

"It's always like this." She warns. He looks up at her with confusion. "Living with her prophecies. There are lots of times where you'll just be doing something only to realize 'oh crap I just fulfilled one'."

"Sounds kind of frivolous." He says, considering. "And if most of them are like that... Like a real life puzzle almost: oh so _that's_ what that one was about and such... It's the ones that spoil life that worry me."

Anathema thinks about that for a moment. Remembers when she was younger and her mother told her about how her drawing in the book had been foreseen by Agnes, and how impressed and awed she'd felt. That she'd been at her desk in her teens, flipping through a magazine, when the power went out, only to connect it with a prophecy afterwards. Silly little ones you figure out after the fact. Before her destiny had taken front stage and pushed everything else aside. Turned it from amusing, from a puzzle to solve, to something real and pressuring. And it had been satisfying to figure them out before they happened as well. The satisfaction of being on the same page as a seer and able to figure out and expect the future. To prepare for it.

When put that way, it doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world.

It's the control that was the problem. The pressure to measure up. To follow them simply because it was written. If that was all removed from it, how would she feel about it?

"It could be quite fun at times." She tells him. She meets his eyes and feels a bit ashamed as she confesses, "I'm thinking of saying yes."

He's sympathetic though: "To Agnes sending you her thoughts and visions on occasion?"

And there's a thought. There's no reason they have to receive them all at once like with the previous book. Instead of slaving over pages of them…

"A few relevant ones at a time?" She suggests out loud.

She turns the page and sees a simple, "Very doable. Very fun." And smiles at the ridiculous thought that she's now responsible for multiple future blackmails.

"And a timetable of some kind." Newton adds. "It could be set dates, or decided by Anathema on the fly." Anathema has the brief image of reclining with snacks muttering up into the sky sarcastically 'It would be a shame to receive a portent of doom at this hour' moments before someone arrives with a delivery of a few prophecies. "But something where we don't feel on edge wondering when and how we'll receive something."

"That would be nice. No stress, no pressure, just… a quirky grandmother annoying her children lovingly."

"It's up to you." He tells her and wow she wants to kiss him.

"I dunno. A few more questions, perhaps. This isn't a decision to be made lightly."

So they do that. A bit of back and forth on boundaries, expectations, hard limits. What did she mean by being watched? Oh sorry that's one of the few things I can't say right now. Cheeky old witch.

By the end of it they've just about hammered out a working relationship. The final two pages are a bit different however: "Use this last page once the tension has left." is all the first one says, which is followed by the final sheet which is neither prophecy nor dialogue nor instructions. Nothing more than a simple list.

"Well, I asked for cryptic." Anathema huffs a mixture of amusement and sarcasm.

"Any idea what it's about?"

"I've got a few theories."

* * *

**Crowley's Flat**   
**After a shower**   
**Crowley**

Crowley takes a moment after getting dressed to luxuriate in seeing his angel chilling on his couch. It's nice, being able to see him relaxed and enjoying himself. It always is.

"Almost ready?" Aziraphale asks once he's noticed Crowley's watching him. He's got his shades on now, easier to not show how content he is with them on.

Aziraphale looks a touch jumpy though, he notices after a moment. He didn't look that way before he realized Crowley was there.

The anxiety's back.

"Alright?" He asks, not expecting an honest answer, but hoping for one nonetheless.

Aziraphale's looks around shiftily, like a startled animal, starts a disjointed mutter of, "Fine! Just fine." Crowley swallows down his disappointment. If Aziraphale doesn't want to talk, that's his choice, not for Crowley to force.

He's thus taken quite by surprise when Aziraphale puts his book aside and asks him shyly, "What about you? How've you been holding up—sleeping aside?"

He looks so honest in his question that even through the lingering sting of disappointment he offers up a banal-if-true, "Been fine." He only realizes after that he'd just used the same descriptor Aziraphale was using. "Pretty great actually. 'Snice not to have a quota to fill anymore."

"I'm sure. 6000 years of work; I think we've earned a retirement." Aziraphale offers up, looking shy and thoughtful now. He then closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and stares directly at Crowley with a determination that leaves Crowley feeling on the back foot. "Crowley?"

"Mmhmm?" It's higher pitched than he intends.

"Would you… mind sitting with me for a moment? There's something I wish to say."

Oh no.

He's chewing at his bottom lip and everything.

That's just not fair.

"Yeah sure." is what comes out of his mouth. He finds himself plopping down on the other end of the couch and staring back. They're reversed from the positions they were in just two weeks ago preparing to survive their executions. "What did you want to say?" And why does he have a bad feeling about this?

"Thank you." He says with this little smile, like this is something worth thanking him for. Except then he alternates to looking constipated and tense, like there is something he wants to say but is having trouble voicing it.

After a full minute of vacillation between opening and closing his mouth Aziraphale throws his head back dramatically and groans, "I knew this would be difficult but really!"

"Having some trouble there?" He teases, desperately wanting to lighten up this tension in the air.

"Oh hush you." Aziraphale pouts back at him. "You try apologizing for years of poor decisions. The words just don't want to come." He looks away and mutters something under his breath. "Even though we practiced…"

What?

"Angel, what do you mean—what are you apologizing for?"

It's somehow worse than he thought it was going to be.

Was he being apologized to?? For what??

"Oh plenty I'm sure." He responds half flippantly, half seriously. "But right _now_ I'm trying to, well, I'm trying to apologize for being a fool."

Yeah, Crowley's lost. "'Fraid I'm not following here, angel."

Aziraphale huffs in irritation. "I know. I've already managed to do such a poor job of this—"

Aziraphale interrupts himself, clenches his teeth then forces out: “I don't like…" He takes another deep breath and dives head in: "I don’t like how I didn’t allow myself to trust you until there were no other options left for me. That was… horrible of me. Horribly selfish and completely pointless and did little other than to hurt you.”

Ah.

…

What?

"Wuh? Is this about what happened during the apocalypse? Don't worry about it, angel. Tensions were high. We're good now—" He hopes—

Aziraphale interrupts his rambling with his own continued: “I don’t like who I was—that is to say: I don't like who I am. I actually quite like who I used to be, but that was a very long time ago and I'm… afraid because what if I can't become that person again?”

"Angel, what are you talking about?" He manages through the inner echo of 'I don't like… who I am.'

“Crowley, look at me. Think of my shop. What do you see? I’ve had this coat for over 100 years. The books and things for more. I _like_ old books, the keeping and maintaining of them even though I could more easily house their knowledge on technology, or online. I know how to use contemporary technology, but I never do if I can avoid it because I prefer older things, older ways of doing things.”

Crowley is fucking _floored._ What the _fuck_ did he think about during this Thinking Time of his? The meaning of life? That kind of thing drives you crazy.

He's been particularly struck by Aziraphale saying he _didn't like himself_. What the fuck what the fuck what the actual fuck?

“Surely you don’t think liking old things is unforgivable. Being a hedonistic angel is one of your most interesting qualities.” Wow. Way to go Crowley. He’s having an identity crisis (can Angels have midlife crises?) and you’re here telling him that an Angel being a hedonist is one of his ‘most interesting qualities.’ Top quality compliment right there. Good job. That's sure to help patch up his self-esteem.

“No, no. I don’t think it’s bad that I prefer old things." Oh. Okay. Good… what's this conversation about then?? "Or that I enjoy, well, living, or anything else like that. I’m just using that as an example. To exemplify how I'm … I’m stuck in my ways and I _like_ it that way…" He scrunches his eyes closed and clenches his jaw before adding, "But I _don’t_ like that I didn’t allow myself to trust you until there were no other options left for me. That was… horrible of me. Horribly selfish and completely pointless and did little other than to hurt you. That I… that I treated you poorly. That’s what I regret: treating you poorly.”

Crowley is having an exe error please try again later.

No but seriously. What is happening? Crowley is not following.

Aziraphale looks relieved at those last sentences out of his mouth, like he'd finally gotten the word choice he wanted to get across. What? Crowley, meanwhile, barely manages, “It’s not like you did it to spite me. You earnestly thought it was the best solution.”

Aziraphale turns from relieved at finally getting his words out to shaky and wild at the drop of a pin. He threads a hand through his hair and grips it, almost as if he's trying to hide himself from Crowley's bewildered gaze. “You think too highly of me, my dear. While it’s true that I didn’t do any of that to spite you, I didn’t necessarily believe it would be the best solution. I was…”

“?” Crowley really can't manage more than his genuinely confused expression right now.

“Afraid." He breathes out, more air than word. "Always afraid. Of Heaven. Of what Heaven would do. To me. To you. Now that I’m firmly outside of their control… it’s so much easier to see just what they did to me. The lies and manipulation… the indoctrination.”

He looks so… ashamed of it. As if he's to blame that Heaven is full of twats.

Before Crowley can crack open his mouth to tell Aziraphale he lost the thread of this conversation several minutes ago, he continues, basically reciting what he's saying from memory: “Heaven's not unlike that of human cults, really. Excessively zealous and unquestioning commitment to its leader, belief system, ideology, and practices as the Truth. Elitism. Essentialism. Us-vs-them mentality. Leaders aren’t held accountable. The exalted end justifies the means. Devotion to the group. Preoccupied with bringing in new members. Subservience to leaders… and cutting ties with friends.” Aziraphale glances over at him, once, at this point before resuming his internal checklist. “The most loyal feel there’s no life outside the context of the group. Fear of reprisal if they leave the group…” Aziraphale swallows harshly here and then quotes, his jaw quivering, “‘Questioning, doubt, and dissent are discouraged or even punished.’”

Crowley may still be reeling from how any of this has to deal with apologizing to him, but he offers up, “Well, when you put it all like that…”

“Did you ever notice how I was more easygoing at first?" Aziraphale doesn't wait for an answer. "Did you know that I didn’t buy into any of it for years? I spoke the lines, but without much belief in them. More prodding, trying to tease out responses so I could make my own opinions, than any true belief… but when you keep hearing those things, over and over and over… and you’re terrified you’ll be punished if you don’t at least fake it…”

“For thousands of years.” Crowley adds. Yeah. When Aziraphale puts it so bluntly it really just all comes together, doesn’t it? Because he did use to be a bit less… Crowley’s not sure how to describe it. In Eden, he gave away the sword and only really worried that he’d done the wrong thing. He hadn’t fought Crowley, and had in fact saved him from the rain. He’d helped keep him warm and in company during the First Blizzard. He’d slyly suggested a plan for saving some of the children from the Flood; he’d been the one to do that, on his own, no temptations or convincing from Crowley. In Rome, Aziraphale was the one to invite him to lunch. But that proactiveness _had_ died down over time. By the time of King Arthur, what little comradery they had built up had seemed to have ebbed in the opposite direction. Crowley had managed to convince Aziraphale of the first phase of the Arrangement, but it had taken effort. And a lot of needling.

And, if Crowley really thought about it, he could probably plot an entire timeline of how Aziraphale had always seemed just that little bit more closed off after a visit to or from Heaven. Hearing that kind of Rhetoric, constantly, for thousands of years? Having to adapt it and regurgitate it yourself in order to survive?

Crowley knew exactly what that was like.

Except it had worked a bit differently for each of them, hadn't it? Where Crowley had already been exorcised from one home in a traumatic way, Aziraphale had not. So it was perhaps easier for Crowley to distance himself from the things he did and said while he was in Hell, or acting on behalf of Hell. He’d already said goodbye to one home. A second goodbye wouldn’t have been as painful (emotionally speaking).

But Heaven was all Aziraphale had known. Sure, he knew Earth, too, but it was a newer association, and Heaven was the group he was ordered by. Controlled by.

All Demons had quite a bit of separation anxiety after the Fall, alternately longing for and missing home and despising it in equal measure. They took it out on each other and Crowley had stayed the hell away from all that. He’d escaped from that mess early on. He'd watched from the outside, more or less, as Hell also became its own kind of cult. Praise the Dark Lord, Ruler of Demons, Father of Lies, Deceiver of the Whole World, secure souls for the Master, yada yada… But Crowley hadn’t felt a connection with Hell as a whole. He’d escaped almost immediately. Found a home on Earth almost immediately. Stayed on Earth. Played a part almost solely for survival, solely because Hell would not have allowed him to just leave.

Heaven had still been Aziraphale’s home, though. The angels were still his family. His superiors filling his head with doubts and demanding unquestioning loyalty. And having that prick Gabriel for a boss? Almighty, Crowley can only imagine. At least his superiors projected a general aura of apathy—in a Slothish or ‘what’s a computer’ way.

Crowley had figured fairly early on he wasn’t loyal to Hell—he hadn’t been sure what exactly he was loyal to for a long time, but he was always fairly emotionally distant from Hell—but Aziraphale hadn’t been such from Heaven. He hadn't had the same separation from Heaven that Crowley'd already experienced.

That really must've been terrifying.

Crowley thinks he understands what this is about now. It's about the bandstand, and it's about outside the bookshop, and it's about his initial demurral in tending to the antichrist situation 11 years ago, and it's about all the little things that have occurred in these millennia they've known each other.

"So Heaven screwed you over; I don't see how that's your fault." He argues. He doesn't like seeing Aziraphale dislike himself.

"It explains it, but it doesn't excuse it." Aziraphale pushes. He turns and reaches out to hold one of Crowley's hands in both of his. Crowley allows it nervously. "Even if you feel this is unnecessary, I want it to be acknowledged: I am _so_ sorry for every time I have hurt you with my words or actions. For every time I denied our friendship or disparaged you for being a Demon."

"Nnngk." Crowley feels himself wiggle in his spot as he puts effort into _not_ turning into a snake in embarrassment. It's a near thing. "I never really took them seriously, angel." Not a complete lie even if it's definitely not the truth.

"Just because you weren't hurt by it doesn't mean it's okay that I did it. I want to become better. I want to become someone deserving of you—and of your friendship. Your friendship is one of my most important and treasured possessions. I'm sorry I treated it and you so carelessly. And I am sorry that I have failed to be the same for you that you have for me at every step of the way."

And that's the extent of Crowley's self-control. One second he's completely adrift in the storm of Aziraphale's heartfelt apology, and then the next he's a squirmy snake doing his best not to fall off the couch.

"Oh dear." Aziraphale says somewhere in the near distance, sounding oddly calm amidst Crowley's distress. "I think—if you would just stop flailing I think you'd be okay."

His hands come forward to still Crowley's serpentine body. Gentle things that do little more than help coax some order into his writhing. Once he no longer feels like his world is about to implode, Aziraphale moves his hands up to his head, gently guiding it, with both hands cradling it, to face him. Aziraphale's smiling warmly in his direction.

"I haven't seen you like this in a long time." He says softly into the quiet of the flat. Crowley's tongue flicks out on instinct—and accidentally brushes Aziraphale's nose—when had he leaned in so close????

Aziraphale laughs slightly, stubbornly holding onto Crowley's embarrassed head as he tries to pull away. "Thank you." is what he says, in the same way one indulgently thanks a dog for licking their face—really! Crowley huffs in annoyance.

Aziraphale has taken to stroking his head-scales and neck. Do snakes have necks? The back part of the section that would possess a trachea. Aziraphale's _still_ smiling all softly and doe-eyed at him.

"I want to become a better person. And I know the perfect person to support me, if you'll still have me." He then leans forward more and puts their foreheads together. Crowley watches as Aziraphale closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Crowley feels himself soften at the intimacy. His crazy, beautiful bastard of an angel.

When Aziraphale goes to pull away, Crowley thrashes himself a bit in order to macgyver himself into flopping his head onto Aziraphale's shoulder. His angel soon after envelopes his snake body with his arms. Snake hug. Snug.

Crowley thinks about outside the bookshop again, the way Aziraphale had said 'I forgive you.' like it was an apology. It plays on loop in his head until he makes his decision on how to respond.

Once his heart's returned to an acceptable rhythm, he shifts himself back to humanoid and grips Aziraphale's shoulders, and, while hiding his face over his shoulder, simply says, "I forgive you."

If Aziraphale holds him tighter at that, if he's shaking with emotion or on the verge of tears as he clings to Crowley in response, well, Crowley's not going to be the one to rat him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone loves supportive!grandma!Agnes who loves and is proud of all her idiot children and has a slight mischievous streak. And who respects her descendant's boundaries. I might've been watching one too many r/insaneparents videos and craved some boundary setting.
> 
> Referenced [this great Tumblr post](https://thestormscrolls.tumblr.com/post/69047884323/ok-so-this-just-hit-me-humidifiers-fill-the-air).


	6. Occult Paperweights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale stole the chapter and is a good boi who loves Crowley. Crowley, meanwhile, is a certifiable mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Mentions of Ligur's 'corpse' and a vague flashback that it invoked.

**St. James Park**   
**Sunday**   
**Aziraphale**

It felt good to be able to communicate himself fully for once, even if he did fumble along his way. He'd never realized how closed off he was until he'd forced himself to look in the mirror and wonder at who he was... and come to the conclusion that he truly didn't know.

If you had asked him before the failed apocalypse, he would have told you that between the two of them he was clearly the one more in touch with his emotions. Now, though, he's rather convinced it may well be the opposite. Which must say a lot about him because Crowley was definitely not a paragon of emotional self-awareness. And yet it was Crowley who had begged _him_ to leave with him. Crowley who came back to try again. Crowley who came back _again_ to find his bookshop destroyed and him gone. Crowley who had, instead of finally giving up on him and leaving then, stayed and became drunk and _grieved._

The one who mourned the loss of his car while Aziraphale compartmentalized and was able to focus purely on the present.

The apocalypse was upon them after all and if they were going to do anything about it they simply had to get a wiggle on or risk being too late. Humanity was doomed and anything else simply had to be put aside in order to save it. His bookshop? Crowley's grief over his friend[1]? Over his car? The rational thing to do was to move on without dwelling on them for too long. They simply didn't have time to dwell on them.

People probably look at the two of them and think him as the emotional one and Crowley as the one divorced from emotion, Aziraphale had too, but that didn't seem to be the case in reality. Aziraphale was very good at putting aside his ( _and other people's_ ) needs and wants in order to move forward. Very good at rationalizing and being unemotional. Repressing unneeded things to get what was needed done. Doing things nobody wants to compromise themselfs for and being able to rationalize or repress it away into the recesses of his memories. He'd nearly killed the kid for God's sake. Thank the Almighty for Tracy.

Disregarding others' emotions and feelings (and his own) for the end goal was frighteningly easy for him.

While it's a useful skill under the right circumstance, it's hardly for daily interaction. Certainly not compassionate. Empathy isn't a strong suit of his nowadays, he's realizing, but he would like it to be. He would like to be someone like that—again.

He used to be like that. Well, a bit. More than now, certainly. But then, in order to survive, he'd had to listen to all of Heaven's demands… and it was just easier to submit.

They're still there. Heaven's whispers. The thoughts. The thought processes. 'The end justifies the means' indeed. Surely there's a balance to be had between rationality and emotionality? It's hardly rational to discard emotions entirely, after all.

How can he be kinder? How can he be himself again? Or, if the person he used to be is beyond his reach now, if Heaven corrupted him that much after all, can he at least be good enough?[3]

One step at a time, he supposes. That's what Ms. Field had said. No use trying to change all at once. Better to evolve in increments. It's more conducive to creating new habits, after all.

Like now. There at a park they've been to many times, but they don't have to pretend not to know each other anymore. They don't have to be two gentlemen (occasionally a lady and a gentleman) who happen to be standing near each other to watch the ducks. He can reach over to touch Crowley's arm as they ramble side by side and watch that delightful blush cross his cheeks. He can link their arms together as if they still lived in the Victorian era; the way he had most distractingly longed to before that dreadful piece of paper was passed into his hands. There's no need for excuses. No business to bring up.

Well, not entirely that last one, but he's intentionally putting that one off until _after_ their _entirely_ social outing.

* * *

**Crowley's Flat**

He puts it off until just as they walk back into Crowley's flat; he'd left his reading books there after all.

Also: he isn't quite ready to part from his company.

They still ought to talk about _it_ though.

"Crowley?" He calls for attention during the lull of conversation as they pass through the foyer into that weird little office room; they'd finished their last dialogue just before they'd entered the flat itself.

"Hmmm?"

"Now that we're on our own side," and he loves the feel of it on his tongue now that it's such a certainty, "we're going to have to put thought into protecting ourselves. Well, more thought. Before it was more about obfuscation, now it possibly means, well not possibly," don't think about the stain of that other Demon, don't, "but it means we're now rather actively going to need to protect ourselves and, like you said, humanity versus Heaven and Hell, and whatnot—" Off-point. Just give it to him already. "Well, what I'm trying to say is that you were quite right to want protection, insurance, back then, so—"

(don't think about the stain, do _not_ think about the stain)

He's too nervous. Crowley had clearly been quite lost on the topic until he'd said that last bit, now he just looks soft and awed, if a bit surprised (just the same as the last time, really). So he swallows back the rest of the deluge and pulls out a familiar thermos from the bag he'd brought his books in. Crowley had given him back the thermos sometime last week, and now he was returning it, refilled once again with Holy Water made by Aziraphale's own hand.

His own, trembling, hands. Into the singular object (the collar didn't really count and the bike rack was temporary) that held in its design a most personal confession. He couldn't speak it back then, barely even able to hand over the thing let alone go into the explanation of the pattern's significance. Hell, barely even able to admit it to himself; how was he supposed to explain it to Crowley? Out loud, even? But he'd given him the thermos with his own Clan tartan decorating the outside. The only extent he could bring himself to confess: You are my family. A plea Crowley may not ever decipher that begged for caution and restraint. The closest he could bring himself to handing over his heart and soul.

The terror that, by purpose or by accident, that water could end up killing him plagued him unreasonably. Terrifies him still. The idea that it would be this Holy Water, this water made Holy by his own hand, that was made such by inserting a bit of his power into it… that it would be his essence that would spell his friend's end…

While it turned out they were able to coexist without ill effect after all, the fear still remains. It may not be the exact same existential dread, not the fear of his very existence being the threat, it's still terrifying to hand over something that could lead to devastating consequences that was created by his own hand. The way someone would feel having crafted an item that became a murder weapon of a loved one.[4] 

Crowley, not wholly ignorant of this fear, but also not fully cognizant of it, steps forward tentatively to receive it from him. Again. Again. Again. Ag—

"Probably not as Holy as last time, but it oughtta do." Crowley breaks the loud silence. A forced wry look on his face that can't quite erase the awe he's still showcasing.

Aziraphale trips over his own tongue to keep it filled. "Quite exactly the same, actually."

Crowley's expression rapidly changes from soft awe to sharp worry. "You didn't sneak back to Heaven just to steal this, did you?"

"Of course not." Though he had no idea whether or not he would have considered it if it wasn't for the fact that: "I made it myself."

"Oh." Crowley says. He looks properly confused (agitated?). "Figured it was, I dunno, in limited supply. Didn't know it was something Angels could just make themselves." There's a slight, very understandable, fear there as well.

"Neither does most of Heaven. I think."

Crowley lifts his eyebrows in surprise at that admission. "And you never bothered to tell Heaven any old Angel had the ability to create Holy Water once you learned how to?" A scrunch of eyebrows. "How did you even learn that you could do that?"

"There's a _lot_ I never told them." Aziraphale answers more defensively than he intends. Crowley might think he's referring to the Arrangement, might think Aziraphale is referring to him as if he were some dirty little secret rather than the light of his life that he zealously wished to keep burning, but Aziraphale is thinking of Antichrist locations and Swords and guilty pleasures and… there's a _lot_ he's never told _anyone._ Not even Crowley.

He'd never really told Heaven _anything_ beyond the minimum he felt required. What blessings he completed and the like. What he had to in order to get a read on the Archangel's response to his reasons the war didn't have to happen (not optimal). Nothing of importance (no relevant discoveries or personal revelations). Never anything that could hurt the people he loved: and easier Holy Water generation most certainly would've been that.

He hadn't been beholden to Heaven so much as terribly, terribly afraid of them.

Not wanting to think about that right now, he answers Crowley's second question: "I figured it out myself some time ago. Not sure if every Angel can manage it or just certain ones. The restrictions aren't exactly clear or well-tested. I just know the highest grade in Heaven is the same strength as what I can make with enough time and effort. Now, are you planning to keep it in the safe again, or..?" He doesn't mean to sound so dismissive, but he really doesn't want to talk any more about it. Not… not right now. Not with the cursed (blessed) thing still in his hands. "It's been sitting in there for decades, hasn't it? I could still sense the imprint of it a touch the night of—well everything really."

"Right." Crowley says simply. Probably not sure what to pick out and dissect from his deluge and opting for the simplest option: "Yeah, well, for the first while at least. Hastur would probably know it was there though. Hadn't been thinking about—left it open—you saw—anyways, 'll probably have to find a new hiding spot for it—but… yeah."

Aziraphale is still in the middle of debating whether or not it would be patronizing to insist he be the one to put it back there when Crowley makes the decision for him. He pivots and opens the safe up, and gestures for Aziraphale to set it within instead.

It's weird, being the one to place it this time. He'd selfishly avoided invitations to Crowley's contemporary London residence for decades in order to avoid its presence after all. It's still harrowing, but maybe this time he should put a little more faith into Crowley. It did work out the first time round. That sounds nice.

"I was also thinking it might behoove us to search out other means of protection. Relics and artifacts, spells and the like." The words force themselves out of his mouth from his need to talk about anything that isn't Holy Water. Worrying and planning around Crowley's safety seems an easy enough switch.

"Don't you have a warehouse full of that kind of stuff somewhere?" Crowley asks, instinctively pulling a face that only one affected negatively by all of a place's contents would.

Aziraphale pulls a face instinctively as well, thinking about it. "Of Demon-repelling ones I've collected over the years, yes. But they hardly count as useful. And it's far from full."

"Well, if we're going to be defending ourselves from Heaven and Hell it might be time to decorate your bookshop with them."

Aziraphale's expression probably turns _more_ disgusted at that suggestion, quite against his will. Certainly some vein of confused. "Whyever would I do that?"

"To… keep out Demons? I thought that's what we were talking about here." Crowley's taken to leaning against the back of that ostentatious chair that sits in front of the table.

"Only in part—But it would keep you out as well." Crowley's expression looks to be saying 'yeah, and?' and that sets Aziraphale off. He can't help what follows: "The bookshop is practically your home, too. I'm not about to kick you out of it." The practically wasn't supposed to slip in there. The naked truth is that Aziraphale's always thought of the back room as _theirs_ anyways, even if he's never said it out loud. While Crowley's flat and parks and restaurants have their charms, Aziraphale still wants him to come over to _theirs_. Whenever he wants to, as well as when Aziraphale invites him over. He's not a vampire.

Crowley's face is this weird mix of looking some facsimile of gutted, soft with surprise, and red with embarrassment all at once. Aziraphale, still emotionally raw, exasperating asks, rhetorically: "Whyever do you think I bought the warehouse to store them to begin with? I was hardly going to put them to use in a place you frequent. Come now."

He doesn't mean to to sound petulant, really. But if it takes pouting to get Crowley to see reason then so be it.

At the very least he's already getting better at this being honest with Crowley thing. It was rather high on his list of changes he wanted to make. He may not be following through in the most ideal fashion, but… First steps.

First steps that appear to have some variant of short circuiting Crowley as a consequence. Really. If an admission as obvious as that catches him off guard then Aziraphale has been doing a _really_ bad job at being his friend. Forget attempting to court him; perhaps he should start by making it undeniably clear where his true allegiance lies.

Eventually Crowley recovers himself enough to say, "Not sure what you're expecting to look into then."

"Weapons, not just deterrents, basically. Well, weapons to be used as deterrents, I suppose. I hardly _want_ to use them." Moral argument. Really past-Aziraphale. Could've at least gone with protection. He _was_ a knight for a bit after all, and a soldier many years before that. "Things that have to be used to have an effect; not just things that would make it harder for you to live your life." That would defeat the purpose of the exercise. Though it probably wouldn't be a bad thing to add to the collection, as it were. Less out in the world to be used against Crowley that way.

"Ah. Well, those probably exist somewhere. Definitely rarer though. Most successful Occult memorabilia tends to be of the 'fuck off' or 'stay here' variety."

"Neither of which are ideal for places you frequent; though I suppose we could give a few to our allies for when you're not around them." It's one of those thoughts that had both crossed his mind before but still felt like an epiphany as he voices it.

"Allies?"

Aziraphale perches himself onto the couch and opts to give Crowley A Look in response to that. He'd thought 'Allies' had been pretty self-explanatory. "The others who were a part of stopping the End of Things. While we became their primary targets, they could decide to go after anyone who had a hand in things not going to their plan. We ought to take precautions for their sake as well; being on the side of Humanity, after all." As much as Aziraphale loves 'Our Side', Humanity's Side was simply more accurate to his alignment.

"Ah. That's a good point actually." That look that Crowley hates (and Aziraphale quite loves), the one that shows just how much he cares for others, shows on his face for a moment before he chases it away. At least they're on the same page now.

"Besides, it's not Demons I'm personally worried about. Barring someone trying Hellfire again, I'm fairly confident I could hold my own in a tussle. No, it's an attack from Heaven that has me most worried."

If he was as strong as he used to be—but no. He's not. That's the simple truth of the matter. So the only thing to do is hope there are some Angel traps and/or wards that could be used against them. If Angels can possess the way Demons can perhaps there is some overlap on weaknesses as well and nobody's been able to test it.

There's a lot Heaven and Hell don't understand after all.

Crowley isn't impressed, though. "Oh and there are plenty of anti- _Angel_ artifacts in the world. Let me just kip down to the Tesco and pick one up." His hands flit in the air as he posits that sardonically.

Aziraphale keeps himself from rolling his eyes. "Oh, there must be something out there. Big world; plenty of Satanists—the bad cultish kind not the nice ones[5]—who must've tried to make some anti-Angel devices at some point. Some might have succeeded but been unable to test them out. Worth looking into at least."

"Maybe." Crowley doesn't sound enthused about that. Aziraphale can't really say he is either. In fact—

No.

"Well, better in our hands anyways. What if our—no, no—their sides look for something like that first in an attempt to go after us? No, they're better under our control." There might've been a bit of a collector's thrill in keeping the pieces he has collected in his warehouse, but a majority of his reasoning was to keep it from being used against Crowley one day.

Geez. You think he would've broken away from Heaven ages ago. He probably should have. Disappeared along with—but no. What would've happened to Crowley if he had? Besides, that's not what happened, and he'd rather focus on the reality he's living rather than the what-if scenario.

"I guess."

Aziraphale feels a pang of anger that he tries his best to smother. Something about Crowley's manner, being dismissive of searching out anti-Angel protection, but being perfectly fine with _warding the bookshop against Demons_ … is settling poorly in his stomach and setting his teeth on edge. He doesn't want to take it out on him though, so he buttons it up and forces a 'that's how it's going to go so get over it' expression. He's pretty good at the variations they can take. 'Do you have one, single better idea?' is an old favorite he's adapted over the years. This one takes the form of a smarmy smile that should be communicating 'I'll do this without you if I have to.'

"Fine, fine. We'll look into anti-Angel things too." Crowley concedes, but he says it with that tone that indicates the concession comes with a price. With a degree of authority Crowley says, "But you're getting a mobile phone."

Aziraphale makes a face. Change? He doesn't want to. New things means time spent on those new things which means less time for other, more important things. "I have a perfectly functional—"

"Landline." He gestures up a phone to his ear using his hand (not an actual phone, the hand gesture), shaking it sarcastically. "I can hardly contact you if you're not at the shop with that. That worked fine when we were, what phrase did you use, 'obfuscating'? A mobile phone is far more convenient for our current… purpose. What if you need to reach me at a time you're not at the shop?"

Aziraphale's initial response is to wonder why he's left the bookshop if Crowley's not with him (which isn't true, he leaves his shop _plenty_ , it's just his first impulse), and then to think 'well, then I'll just head back to the bookshop in order to call you'.

Then Crowley casually (as if he's barely thinking about it) adds, "Or vice versa." and Aziraphale knows he's lost this fight in the long run, much to his aggrievement. The idea of Crowley needing his help and being unable to make it in time because he was out at the time is devastating to imagine.

Crowley's been trying to get him to take up a mobile phone for a couple decades now, practically since they came out. He hates that there's an argument that might actually work on him this time around, but at least it's a good one. Easier to bare the wound if it's for a good cause.

"I'll think about it." is how he answers for now, and even that's dragged out of him with pliers. It's a grudging acceptance of defeat, but the pros do outweigh the cons now. An evidence trail of contact was hardly going to break them if Heaven and Hell knew they were in contact now.

Crowley certainly seems to take it as a victory if that grin indicates anything. Feathers successfully ruffled, Aziraphale tuts at him and pats the spot on the couch beside him. If he wants to be like that, well, Aziraphale can play a similar game.

* * *

**Crowley's Flat**   
**Couple weeks later (on a Tuesday)**   
**Crowley**

Crowley intentionally cuts himself back on time spent with Aziraphale, more for himself than for Aziraphale. Not _that_ much, but there's only so much clinginess he can practice before the embarrassment starts to eat at him beyond reason.

He finds, once he has a full day to himself that's not spent sleeping, just how much of it was spent thinking about work. Now that he doesn't have to… things feel odd. Out of place, out of rhythm. Before, he would eke out free time with whatever struck his fancy. Now he finds the concept of unlimited free time to be daunting. What is he supposed to do with it all, exactly?

He knows what he wants to do, and he's still going to use every opportunity to see Aziraphale as much as he wants, but spending literally every moment with him probably isn't healthy. And he needs to get over this paranoia that something will happen just because he's not there ( _not even a few hours after leaving, having killed Ligur in the meantime, and in that short amount of time his best friend was suddenly gone from the world—_ ).

So he takes a bit to consider: what does one do with a windfall of free time? Well, he considers, what would a human do with it? Go to a concert, perhaps. Vacation. Road trip. Make horrible life decisions. Go to a bar. Start a hobby. Make friends. Locate dangerous occult artifacts of power to be used in the name of self-defense. Typical things.

One unremarkable Tuesday a couple weeks later, Crowley's called up Aziraphale's landline (mobile phone progress ongoing but looking well) and is in the process of tempting him to a luncheon the following day when _it_ comes up.

"There's this family restaurant I wandered across the other day that I think you'll like. We could meet up there tomorrow for lunch?" He asks as smoothly as he can manage.

"That sounds lovely!—oh. Wait, I've got something on tomorrow; maybe sometime after 5 instead, for supper? I should be free by then."

"Sounds good." He answers, cause it is fine. That doesn't mean he isn't curious though. "What've you got going on at noon to... 5?"

"Oh. You know. Mental wellness and all that. Oh! And Crowley, I've been thinking… we ought to make plans to head over to Tadfield to check in on Adam and that girl you hit with your car, the one who'd had Agnes' book of prophecies. We mentioned it before, but haven't gotten around to it. I was thinking we could head over to Tadfield and give them a visit later this week?" Well that was a change of subject if Crowley's ever heard one.

Then the content of what Aziraphale suggested penetrates and... Ugh. Socializing. Adam would probably be some fun, but why on Earth would he want to spend time with book girl?[6]

"Yeah, sure." is what comes out of his mouth though. "Just because we did it with the wrong kid for years—we did agree to be the antichrist's godfathers."

That's when Aziraphale says one of the most terrifying sentences he's ever heard in his life: "Speaking of which… I was rather thinking we ought to pay a visit to the Dowlings as well. See how Warlock's holding up. He was our charge for six years. I grew rather fond of him and want to know how he's doing."

"Yeah." Crowley squeaks out. "Probably a good idea." It kind of just hit him all at once that they were both fucking with an unrelated kid throughout his formative years. A kid he also was _quite_ secretly fond of.

Oh no.

To distract from that horror, he turns the topic back to the other one: "How're you going to transport your 'gift'? I could hardly be the one to drive you there with whatever you take in my car."

"Oh don't be silly. I'll find my own way there; and I'll be sure to stash it somewhere far enough away you won't have to worry about it." Well that's… not exactly comforting, but whatever. Giving their 'allies' a way to protect themselves from Hell _is_ a good cause, however even the thought of such items pricks goosebumps on his skin.

Actually, do any of them other than Adam even know what Aziraphale and Crowley are?

* * *

**Footnotes:**

1 Crowley was referring to him, he's pretty sure. He'd thought he could've been referring to whatever friend had been at his flat during the phone call, an unfriendly demon was killed there after all[2] so it's hardly a stretch to think they'd harmed said friend or a friendly neighbor that had come to check up on him—Aziraphale met one of his neighbors on Friday when he'd come to check on Crowley after their missed meeting. A lovely older woman who seemed fond of her strange neighbor. Except he'd said best friend. And what with the bookshop fire—it simply had to be him he was referring to.

2 He still remembers the chill that possessed him upon seeing the remains of the dissolved Demon. How, for a fraction of time, he was somewhere else. A place where reality and memory collided with dark fears. A place where Crowley was the stain on the floor, with Aziraphale standing above him, intact. The open air of the forest. The bitter sting in his wings. The sick shame-heat spreading under his flesh. The open air of the flat. The knowledge that in order to survive the retribution that must be coming their way they would have to conquer Aziraphale's greatest fear. That the fear that Aziraphale could be responsible for Crowley's death was no longer a nameless what-if scenario that plagued him or fueled his paranoia about what could be done with Holy Water. That this could be the very real outcome of what they had to do to survive. Crowley could very well end up just like the stain on the floor—the pile of ash on the ground—Return to text.

3 He'd actually like to be even better than before, but that seems like far too unrealistic a goal to be reasonable.

4 The way he'd felt having given over the Sword, sometimes. The death of the lion. The deaths of—well. Let's just say he wasn't wholly surprised it became a symbol for War.

5 Aziraphale had met LaVey at a small party in the States back in the 60s. Crowley'd had business in the States, and Aziraphale'd wanted a vacation, and so via the Arrangement he'd wound up as the tempter, and somehow that had led to causing the invention of a not-religion based on personal wellbeing, free will, self-indulgence, etc. He vaguely remembers getting himself so drunk he wasn't fully aware of how he was waxing poetic about Crowley, the incident in Soho had basically just happened, and he rather drenched anyone who would listen of everything he saw in Crowley. The need to vent such bundled up feelings having come to a peak. LaVey had taken a keen interest in what Aziraphale had had to say… needless to say Aziraphale had been quite blindsided when Crowley had, bewildered, explained he was receiving a commendation for inventing the Church of Satan, would Aziraphale know what that's about? No, of course not! Having looked into the religion after that… Well. That was certainly one way to take his drunken, mostly besotted, occasionally self-defensive ramblings.

6Since he was even more of a spectator in events, at least as far as the two Celestials were aware, neither of them even really remembered Newton being there. In their defense, the other Celestials present remember him even less, so it's rather to his benefit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Remind/Explain to people that Satanism isn't actually about worshipping Satan. *Does a little research to make sure I remembered that correctly.* Hey what if Crowley had ranted while drunk and that led to its conception… *Starts writing the footnote* WHAT IF JUST AZIRAPHALE WAS THE ONE TO ACTUALLY CAUSE THE CREATION OF LEVAY SATANISM BECAUSE HE WAS DRUNK-GUSHING ABOUT CROWLEY/ HAVING A MENTAL BREAKDOWN.
> 
> No but really. [Snakes seem a common pet among the aesthetic and everything. Dark aesthetic is common too: blacks and reds especially.](https://www.huckmag.com/art-and-culture/new-generation-church-of-satan/) The joy of excess. I'm surprised I've not seen people make this connection somewhere before. Someone somewhere MUST have, and I just haven't seen it.
> 
> Crowley's habit of generating mischief that adversely affects himself is a curse that follows him everywhere. And now his husband is insisting they visit the kid they 'raised' together for several years. Karma works in mysterious ways, I suppose.
> 
> Me, outlining chapters wondering how to divy scenes up: Man, I wanted this thing to happen the chapter after but the word count would be super low without it here… ch 6 in particular is kinda a wonky in-between chapter...
> 
> Me, actually writing the chapter: Oh yeah. I completely forgot my writing style of being too fucking introspective and tangents everywhere.
> 
> Also me writing this chapter: Aziraphale that was supposed to be a short blurb from your POV not a fleshed out scene! Where'd the Holy Water even come from?? I'd fucking forgotten about that! You weren't supposed to have any major POV scenes for many chapters to come, in a sort of *Crowley's POV builds up questions about Aziraphale's POV then Aziraphale's POV comes in!* way and yet here you are anyways! You bastard! You weren't even supposed to have any POV in this chapter at all but I thought a short blurb from you might help flesh out the chapter! And then you *made* the chapter. Wtf. All because of my hare-brained sort of last minute idea of artifact-hunting (came about from [In the Face of Fear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19838476/chapters/46976413)'s museum heist of Excalibur)! I'D FORGOTTEN I WANTED YOU TO GIVE HIM THE WATER SO HTF DID YOU REMEMBER IT YOU FUCKING BASTARD.
> 
> Sorry. The characters often control the story more than I do even if I try to craft the story beats. And then I rant about it. It's my coping mechanism


	7. Fruit's Basket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley have tea with Anathema and Newt. It goes well, thanks for asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Torture device (described but not used). Crowley's having a Demon-related bad time at Anathema's place. Staurophobia. Description of pain. Off-screen arguing.
> 
> Lots of POV changing because I was having a *really* hard time writing this chapter and did whatever I could to get it done. Sorry.

**Aziraphale's Secret Warehouse  
** **3am the day they're to have brunch at Jasmine Cottage  
** **Aziraphale**

Aziraphale swallows down the discomfort that coming here always ignites in him. He visits often enough: to review the security, add a new piece, or to ensure nothing's gone missing. They're important visits, but that doesn't mean he likes having to make them. Too many negative possibilities. Too many sour memories.

Where his books have a habit of not collecting dust (between his constant reshelving and his belief that they simply shouldn't), the artifacts stored in this place are always covered in dust. Despite a lack of human or animal bodies, despite being sealed up as tight as possible, all these Demon-effecting artifacts simply deserved to be covered in a thick layer of dust. Dust means dirty and disused. Dust means they haven't been moved, haven't been used. Of course things as distasteful as an item charmed to supernaturally draw in Demons only to trap an appendage in a maw of its sharpened metal should be hidden from the world, never to be utilized (certainly not on Crowley).  They deserve to be as rusted and dysfunctional as their various levels of 'charmed to resist time's effects' allows them to be.[1]

Aziraphale doesn't like this place. What it means. He keeps it heavily guarded—from humans namely. The objects themselves keep Demons away by nature of many of their very existences, and, as Crowley and him discussed previously, there are very few known ways to repel Angels. It's intended to protect its contents down to the construction.

There's no electricity in the place. Barely even shelving, and that was primarily installed so the place didn't look like a complete dump, kept things off the floor, and kept things in some semblance of organized. The type of pieces he's interested in retrieving would be on one of those shelves: small, but serviceable trinkets or items. Simple, uncomplicated, not 'dangerous'.

He gathers up those that fit his criteria, grimacing at the furry quality of the dust bunnies as he shoves them into a tote bag he's brought.

You'd think the Holy quality of them would be comforting. A pair of rosary beads (metal) (yes, pair) intertwined together to form cuffs (formerly, they're broken now).[2] A specially charmed bible that additionally had the audacity to bear a cross on it's cover that had a tendency to flip to a certain passage in the presence of a Demon. A triptych that hypnotized Demons to stare at it in rejection of all else…

While he doesn't add any of the hypnotizing-type artifacts to his bag, he does add them to his mental list of 'possibly useful.' Not every single one of the ward-off variety makes it in either. He'll just make a trip back if needs must. He's spent too long in here and itches just thinking about the ones he's already withdrawing from this tomb. He wants out sooner rather than later.

* * *

 **Just outside Tadfield  
** **A bit later  
** **Crowley**

True to his word Crowley finds Aziraphale waiting patiently at the side of one of the roads leading into the sleepy town of Tadfield. He's standing perfectly straight, as he is wont to do nowadays, with his hands serenely grasped behind his back. The early morning breeze is tugging playfully at his curls, or so Crowley notices once the car is miraculously parked on a dime. Aziraphale had grimaced at Crowley's speedy approach, briefly, before looking away to stare at the sky.

That's how he looks when the car stops. Both close and distant and absolutely _pretty._ He takes this purposeful, _deep_ breath in as Crowley leans out the window. His chest expands with the intake. He smiles that small pleased thing that makes Crowley happy just seeing it. He may not understand why his angel enjoys something, but he does enjoy the fact that he is enjoying it.

Course then he says something like "It's going to be a lovely day."

The smile stays on Crowley's face even if his judging eyebrows make an appearance above his glasses. "It's humid and going to get worse as the day progresses. Not sure how you came to that conclusion."

Aziraphale gives him that playful-glare that Crowley loves to elicit. He unfolds and makes his way around the front of the Bentley while saying, "I don't see why that precludes it from being a good day." The change in position leaves Crowley feeling a little wistful, the rising sun is no longer catching his hair _just so_ , but it does mean he's moving closer and joining him in his car which is always a pleasant feeling.

Longing pangs for an instant, but is easily smoothed by dropping into a banter with him.

The closer they approach, however, the more Crowley realizes Aziraphale's feeling a bit nervous. Small exhales as if he's trying to chase it out of him. If he was alone he'd probably be psyching himself up and practicing what he was going to say. Probably did earlier. It hits Crowley that Aziraphale is trying to _make_ it a lovely day. Or at least wants it to be. He smiles softly to himself and considers what kinds of things he can do to help with that.

Anathema is waiting for them at the front door and calls out to them as Crowley cuts off the engine.

Crowley lets Aziraphale perform the pleasantries, not being one for more than a quick hello because the less interaction he has to deal with the better. Well, that's not exactly true, but it is awkward and he'd rather not, y'know? Besides, Aziraphale's up for it so why interrupt? He gives a polite smile and wave but otherwise doesn't contribute.

It's not until Anathema invites them into her home that Crowley notices something feels… _off._ Like magnets' same poles being pushed towards one another. Except he's one of the magnets.

He looks for the source and grimaces up at the horseshoe with distaste. Aziraphale has glanced over his shoulder after noticing he's stopped and follows Crowley's sight with a soft 'oh'. He leans in close to Crowley and whispers, "You know, I never asked, because it never came up, but do horseshoes prevent anything from Hell or just Demons? Because what I'd mostly heard was that it repels evil."

"Ehhh. Sort of a mix of column A and C I think." Crowley whispers back. "I should be able to enter just fine, it's more annoying than anything."

"Well that's no good. You shouldn't feel unwelcome when visiting a friend's home."— "We barely know them." —"Would it be enough to move it" said with an accompanying hand motion that flits off to the side "or would it have to be removed entirely?"

"Just kinda… shoving it over oughtta work. It's entrance-specific."

Aziraphale makes a motion with his right hand where he brings it down after throwing it above his head and then just kinda… makes a shoving motion in the air. The horseshoe is now to the house's right, their left, and no longer over the main entrance. He won't be leaving through that window anytime soon but eh. He wasn't exactly planning to.

That glasses kid appears in the doorway and stops to ask what they're doing.

"Oh! Nothing! Just, uh, checking out the plant life. Yes." 

The kid just blinks at Aziraphale and says, "Alright?" And then turns to look… at the growth that could be considered plant life. "I was thinking I might try my hand at gardening. At least tidy up the more zealous ones."

"There better be morning flowers!" Yells a distant voice. How she heard him is beyond Crowley.

"Uh, sure?" He turns into the house to join her. "Come on in." He tells them.

The pictures framed in the hallway are less Family Memories and more artwork straight out of Jakub Różalski's wheelhouse. Dark shadows and terrible creatures with a light touch of whimsy. Witches.

Huh. Would make sense that Agnes' descendant's into witches. Checks out.

Doesn't bode well for him though.

The lounge area where Anathema's waiting for them contains more little things. Pretty gemstones glimmering in the window's sunlight. Various knickknacks adorning the room's shelving. A nazar hung on the wall.

A wooden cross with a physical Yeshua carved onto it hanging nearby.

Some Demons were known to fake a reaction to some specific warding theories, thus spreading the belief it worked and therefore future entry into places that otherwise might've been warded successfully.

And sometimes humans just made shit up all by themselves. Actually, a large majority of apotropaic magic is just good vibes and hope without any actual use. A good ritual or tradition to pass down, but not much more.

Crosses were one of those mass pretend-it-works-it'll-be-hilarious ones. Well. For Demons as a whole at least.

Crosses are sort of a tender area for Aziraphale and Crowley for completely different reasons than rumors perpetuated by both humans and Demons. Sure, there's the occasional charmed amulet or whatever, but that's hardly cross-specific. Rather, it's the distaste that comes with having watched people tortured and killed on the things. He'd seen the guy carved into that thing tortured with his own eyes for Someone's sake.

Crosses were probably the thing other denizens of Hell pretended to affect them most often, useful given their ubiquity. But beyond that Hell didn't really have anything to say about it. The occasional inverse to pledge allegiance to the dark lord, whatever. Crowley being the only Demon who found the things inherently distasteful was hardly unusual.

Where Crowley had essentially shrugged his shoulders, thought humans super weird and gross for spending so much time 'contemplating Jesus' wounds' and glorifying the guy's torture and death, Aziraphale had developed a much stronger aversion to the symbol.

Staurophobia: the irrational fear of crosses. Aziraphale's typical reaction tends to be to pretend they don't exist, sometimes to rather ridiculous extremes. He has this whole collection of books of prophecy and another of misprint bibles, but ardently arranges them to practically never show off any crosses they may or may not bear. Sometimes his reaction is to glare uncharacteristically hatefully. Sometimes, like this time, it's a mix of column B followed by column A; glare followed by pretending it doesn't exist.

All of those are preferred over that very rare other reaction. Crowley's only seen it twice himself, and who knows how many times it's happened when he's not around… but sometimes Aziraphale's gaze glazes over and he seems to disappear somewhere else entirely. He did so for a bit during the crucifixion itself, and then once not long after when they'd both gotten unfathomably buzzed. 

Heaven, to hear Aziraphale explain it, had really taken to it. It sounded like they'd chilled out over it in the last couple hundred years, but for quite awhile they'd apparently been quite gung-ho about the symbol and its potential to draw in more souls. As if Heaven wasn't enough of a shit-show.

At some point over the centuries, not long after that second incident where Aziraphale had gotten incredibly philosophical on the nature of public executions and survivor's guilt, Crowley had picked up the habit of yeeting the crosses he comes across into the void. Well, he doesn't usually bother when it's just him alone. But if he catches Aziraphale grimacing at one, it's become Crowley's habit to disappear it. He usually gets a glare of his own for his trouble, but it's basically an in-joke at this point. Aziraphale has a thing about crosses, Crowley wants to help, Crowley yeets the cross, Aziraphale glares at Crowley to indicate the whole thing is ridiculous and Crowley really you didn't need to do that I'll put up with it…

Anyways. So that's the story of how another cross was added to the growing pile that existed only in some other dimension.

* * *

**Newton**

Anathema directs them to sit as they please and asks, "Any tea preferences? I like to keep a variety on hand. I've got Earl Grey, Oolong, pretty sure I've got a passion fruit blend in there somewhere—"

"Ooo. I haven't had Oolong in years. That one for me I think."

"And you?" Anathema looks to Crowley.

"Got any coffee?"

"As long as you don't mind instant."

"Eh. S'long as you've got milk and sugar I'm not picky."

"Sure thing."

Aziraphale pivots slightly to give his companion A Look. "I do not understand your insistence on drowning any semblance of coffee until it might as well no longer be the original beverage."

His companion tilts his head around to stare back, unruffled. "That's rich coming from you."

"Perhaps, but I prefer foods that are intended to be sweet, not simply suffocated out of any semblance of flavor."

They're married, he thinks as he follows Anathema into the kitchen to help. Must be. They're so comfortable with each other even while ribbing on the other. Newton doesn't know if it's romantic or one of those q-somethings or just platonic, but they are absolutely married. Good for them.

* * *

**Anathema**

Making tea and coffee goes smoothly right up until Anathema's skirt catches on one of the cabinets as she turns too quickly with the coffee mug in one hand. It probably would have been a non-issue if not for the overreaction that comes from the surprise. With the tug on the skirt unforgiving, her body jerks backwards to attempt to prevent it from ripping, but her upper half tries to grab at the counter. It results in an undignified sprawl sideways into a trying-to-help Newton.

The coffee's half-lost over the counter, and there's a slight thread-problem in the part of the skirt where it got snagged.

She almost didn't catch the suspicious goings-on of their guests in the room over.

* * *

**Crowley**

He'd just meant to save her the hassle cleaning up the spill by keeping it and her from toppling over. The moment his fingers move, however, they spark painfully. He grits his teeth against the shout that wants to burst out and shoves them behind the arm of the couch to block it from view. Staring at said fingers, he's relieved not to see any wounds to match the pain. Hurts like a bitch though.

"Is something wrong?"

And, of course, Aziraphale notices his little moment. Hard to miss the mini light show and small crackle of fizzled power so near him. At least he has the decency to keep his voice down.

"No. It's fine. Just—nnngh." That's when the burning starts radiating into the mix of pin-and-cushion from the spark. The sharp agony that feels like toothpicks buried in his skin all concentrated in the tips of three of his fingers. He grits his teeth and measures his breaths for a second as the worst of it passes.

While the pain does pass into a more acceptable numbness that isn't too dissimilar to a lighter parethesia, Aziraphale's concern hasn't waned in the least, only increased. His eyebrows are cutely knitted in their concern. One of his hands hangs nervously in the air between them.

"Crowley. You're obviously in pain. What happened?"

"Been awhile since I've dealt with something of this nature." He starts in, wanting little more than for them to just… continue their visit as if nothing happened. Sweep the incident under the rug. He doesn't want to be the reason everything goes to Hell. "My money's on there being a witch's bottle on the property. Prevented my miracle, felt like nails under my nails, a slight burn to follow. Nothing I haven't dealt with before. Caught the slight scent of rosemary when it happened, too. Honestly, I'm just glad it's one of the newer variations. Those older versions were unsanitary." He makes a face just thinking about it. "It's just pins and needles right now and it'll fade completely in a minute or two. Nothing to worry over."

That wouldn't stop Aziraphale, but at least—

Aziraphale's hand has decided to bridge the empty air between them. It doesn't grab at the painful parts, but rather the wrist of the offending hand. It coaxes his arm closer to the middle between them and pours a bit of power into it. First his hangover and now this: apparently once their ability to coexist spiritually became clear Aziraphale has had no qualms healing him.

Witch bottles are a simple ward intended to protect the user from Demons' or other witches' spells. Buried on the property somewhere is likely a jug full of nails, wine, and rosemary. The idea being that it 'draws in the evil spirit, damages it with sharp metal, drowns it in alcohol, and exorcises it with rosemary'. It didn't work quite in that way, at least not with corporations involved, but it was still effective at preventing evil spells and Demonic miracles.

It _does_ feel better after he heals it, almost normal if not for the far more pleasant tingling left behind of the angel's healing. Rubbing the fingers over each other reminds him of silk.

Where the removal of the hangover several weeks ago felt like a favor between friends, this somehow feels inexplicably more personal. Maybe it's because the hangover was very business-as-usual where this feels far more intentional and deeply _kind._ Like Aziraphale couldn't stand for Crowley being in any degree of pain for a moment longer. Or maybe it was just because he was conscious. Whatever.

* * *

**Aziraphale**

Crowley is being ridiculous.

"And I'm telling you we should at least wait until after brunch when they've had a chance to see us as people."

"We are people, Crowley. 

"But they don't know that."

Aziraphale pulls a face. "That's why I think we should just out with it. Nip it in the bud. Much less confusion."

"Pretty sure it'd be more."

He is not having this argument with him right now. So he sighs, feeling distinctly put upon, and ignores that last petulant utterance in favor of savoring the scents in the air.

* * *

**Crowley**

The next few minutes go by without incident. Book girl and the kid with glasses bring them their drinks, give Crowley satisfyingly weird looks as he downs the whole hot cup in seconds. He's then free to stare as Aziraphale adopts an intent expression as he samples his own cup far more slowly.

That peace doesn't last nearly long enough, though. Because of course it doesn't.

* * *

**Newton**

He's not entirely sure what Anathema's plan here is. He gets that there's something atypical about these two, probably supernatural given what few memories he's capable of plucking out of the aether that is his memory of the other month. He thinks she wants to get that information out into the open.

He also thinks that there must be simpler ways to go about it.

The conversation dips into talking about the apocalypse naturally, it's what they all have in common after all. They seem to be at odds at how to respond. The red-haired one is evasive and dismissive; the white-haired one is prodding and interested. Crowley and Aziraphale? He thinks he remembers their names correctly.

Then Anathema decides it's time to light some incense and everything goes downhill faster than he can blink.

She stands the moment the clock ticks 11:00am and announces she'll be back in a few minutes; she's got a daily ritual to perform.

That's bullshit, Newton knows. While she's got a number of habits and rituals she likes to perform, most of them aren't 'daily' so much as 'when she feels like it'.

He gets a bad feeling about it before… Aziraphale?... asks what kinds of ritual it is. And Anathema replies that it's her family's traditional ritual for cleansing the house of evil. And both of their guests tense up.

"What does it involve?" Aziraphale asks. He's got that tone that's intended to be perfectly curious but there's a tension in his tone that gives his seriousness away. The iciness alone makes him shiver.

Newton misses the specifics as he instead watches an awkward smile fall upon Crowley's lips. Same, stranger. What a strange life they lead.

He zones back in as the red-head asks incredulously: "You put Holy Water in your—wait. Why do you have a humidifier in _Britain_?"

"That's why the windows are open." is all Anathema says in response before sweeping out of the room, leaving behind a distinct aura of chaos.

A beat or two later and Crowley tries to convince Newton that he needs to give him a proper tour of the ‘garden’. His friend, once he’s out of his own stupor caused by Anathema’s blunt willfulness, turns sharply to his companion and snaps, "You cannot be serious."

“What? I like plants.”

“That as it may be, you shouldn’t have to—I'm telling you we should just sit them down and _explain—_ ”

"There's no reason it has to be _now._ It's fine! I'll just hang outside for a bit and—"

"I'm not not just going to sit by while—this is a ridiculous argument." And with that Aziraphale stands abruptly and follows after Anathema like a man on a mission. Newton's not about to get between two powerhouses, so he stays put.

Crowley blinks behind the sunglasses he's still wearing, looking quite surprised. He then seems to startle out of himself and stands to follow through on his comment to head out into the garden. Newton follows, feeling more than a little awkward.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

1 Don't tell Aziraphale that said dust might actually be mostly made up of the concrete walls infinitesimally eroding over time. It's definitely because he's willing it.

2 This one is particularly hated based on the fact that he'd gotten them _from_ Crowley. A few had been picked up in the line of the Arrangement, where it simply made sense that of course Aziraphale would do that temptation because it would be more difficult for Crowley. Those were usually the ward off variety that made it hard for Crowley to approach an area or enter a building. These ones… had the audacity to be on his wrists when Aziraphale came to be in possession of them. While they weren't as dangerous as Holy Water, they replicated enough of the signature to prevent the use of miracles so long as they were on and had the nasty habit of digging into the flesh to prevent removal. Crowley had burst into his lodgings looking understandably haggard. Eyes glassy, breathing off and heavy. His weight had listed him off to the side not a moment later and he found himself braced against Aziraphale's armoire, grasping for a way to hold himself up. Aziraphale had dashed over, shut the door, and helped Crowley to sit on the edge of the small room's mattress. Crowley described how he'd just returned from Germany and figured the friar he'd managed to piss off was hardly going to tail him all the way back to England—except he'd apparently been good pen pals with a Dominican who was more than happy to track down a suspected demon. And in possession of an artifact with power charmed into it.

Needless to say they no longer work as handcuffs. While still inexplicably intertwined together still, they were rather violently broken by Aziraphale after the fact. As much as he feels personally affronted by this artifact, it might make sense to keep something of its workings close at hand. They may no longer function exactly as originally intended, but the residual effect could, objectively speaking, be useful. A binding and not death-inducing measure that is also easy enough to conceal? As much as he doesn't want to let them see the light of day again, he adds them to the ones getting to leave. He'll just stash it somewhere very out of the way, like one of his upstairs desks' drawers. Or the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was *really* hard to write. I just couldn't get myself to do parts of it. The idea was based off the first two posts of [this post](https://dreamehz.tumblr.com/post/642879250999984128/okay-but-why-am-i-laughing-at-the-idea-of-crowley) about Fruit's Basket anime-style shenanigans... But by the time I went to actually write it I was just... bored. There was enough in it that I wanted so I ended up slogging through some parts. 
> 
> Doing so meant doing some research on apopatraic magic where I came across witch bottles which managed to spark my interest a little bit. Aziraphale helped with his unwanted POVs again and at this point I'm just letting him do whatever the fuck he wants. And then I found the original post and both discovered there was more (not relevant to this fic but fun) but also realized… UK wouldn't really utilize humidifiers lol. Edited Newt's dialogue a couple chapters ago minorly to reflect this realization.
> 
> Other apotropaic magic in this chapter: The horseshoe is from the series itself (research indicates Satan wanted horseshoes for his hoofs and the blacksmith tortured him into respecting horseshoes above houses???) [Nazars are eye-shaped amulets](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nazar_\(amulet\)) intended to ward against the bad luck of the evil eye. Mirrors supposedly protect from the evil eye as well, as well as a number of different prayers and rituals.
> 
> Witchcore aesthetic often involves pretty gemstones from what I've seen, so naturally Anathema is a huge fan.
> 
> More on witch bottles: The version I used came from my skim of Wikipedia: piece of user, alcohol, nails/sharp metal, rosemary. Piece of user draws the evil spirit, nails hurt it, alcohol drowns it, rosemary exorcises it. I saw there were more versions as it's a practice with history… I'd mentioned witch bottles to my coworker and she came back the next day saying the version she found had the user have to drink the alcohol and the urine generated from that much wine is what went in the witch bottle.
> 
> I found those things out while trying to search for demon-repelling stuff… not much came up though. =/ So I ended up just making up some stuff.
> 
> The 'draws Demons in before clamping metal death jaws on them' contraption came to me in a haze that when I finished writing the paragraph I stared at it in horror and immediately decided its acquirement did not involve Crowley being hurt by it.
> 
> The dual rosaries were similarly unplanned. I'd written 'pair of' and '(yes two)' then had no follow up for more ideas for the collection… when I finally came back to write my brain went 'interweaved is a cool word =]' and I went 'it sure is' and my brain went 'looks like handcuffs' and then the footnote happened. And then I got dragged into researching them and the Spanish Inquisition a bit and I want my time back. =/
> 
> And uh. Yeah. Aziraphale, the angel, has staurophobia. He really dislikes crosses. Crowley continues to be a supportive if mischievous husband.

**Author's Note:**

> https://discord.gg/aDHev2Et


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